Stephen shook open his newspaper and read while he waited. He’d been out of the mainstream for a while. Six months in a drug and alcohol rehabilitation center tended to do that to you. He’d only been out for six weeks. He was still treading carefully, trying to stay dry in a wet world. He’d made a conscious decision to leave business behind and focus on recovery. It had been a sound decision.
Unfortunately, he’d waited too long for it to make a difference to his family. The day after he signed himself in, his wife, Kathryn, had closed out their bank accounts and checked herself out of his life, taking his five-year-old daughter, Brittany, with her. He’d faced down his first major temptation when he called home and found out the telephone had been disconnected. It took every ounce of willpower he possessed to stick to the program and not pack up and head home to an empty house and a full bottle of scotch.
He’d calmed down when a friend did some checking and learned Kathryn had moved into an apartment in Sacramento, closer to the brokerage firm where she had worked for the past four years. But when he was served with divorce papers a month into the program, Stephen had really struggled. The old urges returned. The urge to get drunk and escape the pain—until it hit him harder the morning after. Fortunately, he knew this was no solution.
“Irreconcilable differences,” Kathryn had claimed.
He’d spent the next few weeks roiling in anger, casting blame, justifying and rationalizing his own behavior over the past few years. Except none of it worked this time. His counselor, Rick, didn’t let him get away with it, and the regimen of the twelve-step program kept bringing him face-to-face with himself. He didn’t like what he saw in the mirror.
Rick was blunt. “If you quit drinking for your wife and daughter, you’ll fail. You have to quit drinking for yourself.”
Stephen knew the truth of that advice. He’d tried to quit before, only to fall off the wagon. If he went back to drinking now, he knew he wouldn’t stop until he was dead. So he made the decision to turn his life over to Jesus Christ, and live one day at a time. Live, the program said. Live and let live, which meant he had to get his own life in order and allow Kathryn to do the same with hers. It meant letting go of the bitterness and wrath that sometimes threatened to overwhelm him. It meant not blaming her for his drinking, and not accepting the role as scapegoat for all of her problems.
He’d signed the divorce papers and contacted an attorney, even though he had already decided not to contest the matter. He took the hard slap across the face when Kathryn told him through her attorney that she wanted the house in lieu of alimony. A clean break, she said, but he knew better. The real-estate market was hot, and she’d make a killing off the house he’d designed and built on a golf course near Granite Bay. He agreed, never expecting her to punch him in the stomach by refusing joint custody of their daughter. When he said he’d fight her, she kicked him below the belt by claiming he had been an abusive husband and father, citing as “proof ” that he was living in a rehab center. She demanded exorbitant child-support payments and insisted they be made on a bimonthly direct-deposit basis.
When the attorney delivered the news, Stephen felt like a cockroach pinned to a display board. “Check the records and see if I’ve ever bounced a check or not made a payment on time. Call the bank! Interview my crew! Talk to my subcontractors! I may have downed a bottle of scotch a day, but I never laid a hand on my wife or my daughter, and I never left a bill unpaid!”
The attorney did check.
Stephen felt small satisfaction. Only a few close friends knew he had a drinking problem, and even they hadn’t guessed the depth of it. And the records showed he had run a successful business and made enough to support his family in an exclusive neighborhood. He’d never been arrested on a DUI or created a public disturbance. The only disturbances had been behind the closed door of his well-insulated, luxury home.
“Be thankful she’s instructed her attorney to have her name removed from anything to do with your business,” his attorney told him. “California is a community-property state, and she’s within her rights to ask for half of it.”
Stephen knew it wasn’t due to any hint of fair play on her part. She’d been through some of the harder years with him. Maybe she was afraid he’d self-destruct, and she’d get caught up in liens against spec housing projects. Construction businesses came and went with every hiccup in the economy. Kathryn just wanted every dime she could get up front. And she didn’t care if that left him with only pennies to live on.
“You can fight her,” his attorney had said. “You don’t have to take this sitting down.”
Stephen had almost given in to the temptation to hit back, and hit hard. Instead, he gritted his teeth and said he would think it over. He didn’t want to react in anger this time. He wanted to respond wisely, and do what was best for Brittany. And Kathryn. He could fight all right, and probably win some rounds. She had had an affair three years ago, after she’d farmed out Brittany to a preschool. In usual form, she’d blamed him for being too insensitive to her needs, and he’d bought a bottle of Glenfiddich. He could fight her, and fill his attorney’s pocket with money while accomplishing nothing but momentary satisfaction. He didn’t feel like punching back this time. They had done enough damage to one another over the past five years. Having Brittany had been an attempt to save their floundering marriage. And it had worked for two years. But how much damage had they done to their daughter during their shouting matches in the last three?
No, this time he’d swallow his pride and let Kathryn have everything she wanted. He’d crush the urge to defend himself. No more casting blame. No more rationalizing or justifying his side of things. Even if he had to go bankrupt.
Maybe when she was on her own, she’d find out he wasn’t the cause of all of her problems.
He was going to put one foot in front of the other and live one day at a time. He’d faced up to his drinking problem when he checked into the Salvation Army rehab facility. Knew he was going to live with the urge to drink for the rest of his life. The first few weeks, he’d worked the program on his own terms, determined to win against alcohol, to put a finish to addiction. Loss of his wife, daughter, and home had removed any illusions that he had control over his life. He crashed and burned. But it was in the anguish that followed that he knew everything was changing from the inside out.
It wasn’t until he hit rock bottom that he had been willing to look up and cry out to Jesus for help because he finally faced the fact that he was powerless. “Not by might, nor by power, but by my Spirit, says the Lord Al-mighty.” Something happened that night that changed everything. Stephen heard what people who walked the walk were saying. He believed the promises the Bible offered. “Come to me and I will give you rest—all of you who work so hard beneath a heavy yoke.”
He had been warned of the enemy on the prowl. “Read your Bible daily,” Rick said. “Go to your AA meetings. Find a fellowship of believers. The biggest mistake an alcoholic can make is to isolate, going off by himself and thinking he can make it on his own.” Stephen took the advice to heart, knowing it came from the voice of experience.
He’d been out of rehab for six weeks now. He read his One Year Bible at five o’clock every morning, attended AA meetings three times a week, and worked out at a gym when the urge to drink hit him. The house had sold two days after Kathryn put it on the market. The few pieces of furniture Kathryn had left behind went into a storage facility until he could find an apartment. By the grace of God, Stephen had a project waiting for him, and would make enough off it to keep Decker Design and Construction in the black for months to come.
A few members of his old crew made themselves available. Carl Henderson, a carpenter dubbed “Tree House” by his friends because of his six-foot-nine-inch frame, and Hector Mendoza, Stephen’s “Mexican backhoe,” who could be counted on to do the labor of two men. Carl had been one of Stephen’s drinking buddies, so he warned him up front, “Those days are over for me.” Hector, a nat
uralized U.S. citizen, was a devout Catholic and dedicated son, helping support his mother, father, and various siblings still south of the border.
All in all, life was bearable. It would be even better when he moved into a place of his own, rather than paying by the week at a motel on Highway 99. He’d run his business out of his house, and now that the house was gone, he was going to have to make some decisions. The thought of going back to the rush of Sacramento depressed him, but Centerville wasn’t exactly his style either. He’d have to make do with his truck and fifth wheeler until the project was finished. Six months, at the most. Unless they ran into snags with the inspectors.
“Here you go,” Sally said and set down a platter with three eggs over easy, hash browns, and a T-bone steak. She replenished his orange juice and filled his coffee cup to the brim.
Stephen was finishing up the last of his steak when the bell over the door jingled.
“Parson Paul’s here, Charlie.”
A young man entered, wearing sweats and a damp T-shirt. His sandy brown hair was cut short. “Hey, Sally,” he said with a grin. “How’s business?”
“Slow this morning. I expect the crowd to come in around eight. What can I get you?”
“OJ,” he said, and waved to the elderly couple sitting in the booth before he slid onto the stool one down from Stephen. “I’m Paul Hudson,” he said, extending his hand.
Stephen introduced himself as he shook hands.
Sally plunked a tall glass of orange juice on the counter. “How many miles did you run this morning, Parson?”
“Took the short course. Two.”
“Wimping out?” Charlie called through the cook’s window.
Hudson laughed. “Something like that.” He turned to greet the UPS driver. “How’s your wife doing, Al?”
“Getting antsy for the baby to come.”
“What does she have to go? Another month?”
“Two weeks.”
The mechanic said he enjoyed Hudson’s Sunday sermon. “My daughter’s planning on coming to the next youth meeting. She said a couple of her friends are attending.”
“We’re up to twelve,” Hudson said. “Tell her to bring as many friends as she wants.” He turned his attention back to Stephen. “Are you a Christian?”
“I like to think so.”
“Well, we’d love to have you come and visit Centerville Christian. Two blocks down, turn left; look for the steeple. The service starts at nine.”
Sally chuckled. “Got to watch out, Decker. Parson Paul is always prowling the pubs for prospective converts.” She zeroed in on Hudson with a sly grin. “Mr. Decker’s new in town, does a little of this and that.” She picked up his plate and looked at it. “Eats like a horse.”
“Are you looking for work?”
“Nope. I’m building a house up on Quail Hollow.”
Sally put the bill in front of Stephen. “Quail Hollow? Are you going to be working on that big place for the Athertons?”
He nodded.
“A couple of guys working on the foundation came in the other afternoon. Hector Mendoza and a giant who calls himself Tree House. You know ’em?”
“Yes, ma’am. They’re the reason I’m here. They told me Charlie’s Diner was the place to come for good food and friendly service. They just didn’t warn me how friendly.”
She laughed with the others. “Well, Hector and Tree House said the place is going to be over six thousand square feet, and only Atherton and his new wife living in it,” Sally announced to everyone listening. “Can you imagine? What do people do with that much space?”
Keep their distance, Stephen thought cynically, and pulled his wallet from his back pocket. He extracted a twenty and handed it to Sally, who punched the amount into the register and handed him his change. He put a 20 percent tip on the counter as he stood. “Thanks.” He’d needed the few minutes of human interaction before he went back to self-inflicted solitude.
She grinned. “Good-looking and generous.” She folded the bills and tucked them into her apron pocket. “You come back real soon, Stephen, you hear?”
“I plan on making this a regular stop.” He gave her a casual salute.
The bell jingled as he went out the door. Maybe Centerville was just the place he needed to be to lick his wounds.
Eunice closed the front door of the parsonage and set off toward Main Street holding Timmy by the hand. She tossed the end of the white woolen scarf over her shoulder to keep off the fall chill and fought tears. Paul usually walked with them, but he was preparing for a meeting today. Time with him was becoming scarce and precious.
It would be Christmas soon—their second Christmas in Centerville. Why was it that troubles often occurred during the holiday season? Which meant that even more time would be taken away from the family. But it couldn’t be helped. She remembered how it was growing up in a pastor’s home.
Oh, how she missed her parents. The ache of loss was always greater during Christmastime. Memories flooded her, taking her back to childhood in a small Pennsylvania town and the church family her father had served as a lay pastor for twenty-five years. In some ways, Centerville reminded her of Coal Ridge. The congregation had been less than fifty and as closely knit as blood kin. Young people had grown up and moved away. Most had married “outsiders.”
During spring break of Eunice’s senior year at Midwest Christian, Paul had driven her home to Pennsylvania to meet her parents. Her father’s and mother’s reserve had made him doubly conscious of everything he said and did, but he had been single-minded in gaining their acceptance. Not that he needed to worry. They showered him with love and attention. “I was lucky to have five minutes a day with my father,” Paul had told her later. “He was always busy with church business.”
Paul was becoming busier with each month that passed. She was concerned, but not distressed. She walked along the tree-lined street, thinking about her parents. How had they managed to balance home and church obligations? There had never been any doubt that they were devoted to one another as well as to the body of Christ.
Her mother and father had died within two years of one another. One of the elders had performed her mother’s funeral service. Eunice had felt like an orphan when everyone walked away and left her standing at her parents’ graves. She had been six months pregnant at the time. Paul had come home to Coal Ridge with her, but had been eager to return to the classes he was teaching. It was the only time she ever argued with him. Her emotions had been such a jumble, her grief so intense. Paul thought it best to go home. He’d wanted to be the one to distribute covenant papers. She’d been so hurt and angry she said she didn’t remember the Lord ever demanding that His disciples sign a piece of paper in order to have a covenant relationship with Him. Paul finally said they could stay another few days, but she knew grief didn’t always fit a church schedule and said they could go back to Illinois.
A pastor’s wife couldn’t expect to have her husband all to herself.
During the few days they had stayed in Coal Ridge, she had tried to imagine what Paul thought of the place where she’d grown up. Shabby houses, more bars than any other kind of business, stores closed. The mine where her father and the rest of the townspeople had worked had closed down for good, and the town was dying. The few townspeople who remained eked out a living on Social Security. No pastor had come to replace her father. What bright young college graduate would want to come to a dead-end town with no prospects for the future?
Still, the church had continued, though it changed. People no longer came on Sundays to hear Cyrus McClintock preach. They came to sit in the creaking pews and pray for everyone and everything the Lord laid upon their hearts. The doors remained unlocked throughout the week so that whoever felt the nudge of the Lord could come and pray. Eunice had no doubt those precious people her father had shepherded for so many years would continue to offer up praise and pleas until the last member went home to heaven.
Centerville Christian Church was c
hanging, too, but Eunice wasn’t completely comfortable with what she saw happening. Paul’s ambitions for the church were growing just as the church was growing. The pews were filling up with new people. Visitors came out of curiosity, and became regular attendees because they loved Paul’s style of preaching.
Lord, what is it that’s beneath my concern? Am I being selfish? Why this sense of discontent in the midst of such blessing? Help me through this. Help me see clearly.
She had tried to talk to Paul about it, but found it difficult to put her concerns into words. He still made time for her and Timmy, just not as much as before they had come here. But that was understandable. The responsibilities of a pastor were greater than those of an associate pastor.
“When we got here, there were fewer than sixty people in the pews on any given Sunday, Euny. The idea is to build the church, not allow it to stagnate.”
Her first thought flew to Samuel and Abby Mason, both of whom lived a vibrant faith, practicing all they had been taught by the previous pastor, Henry Porter. Eunice wished she and Paul had arrived a few days earlier in order to meet this gentleman and his wife who had served so long and so faithfully and were still so well loved. “Just because there were only a few members doesn’t mean their faith was stagnant.”
“What would you call it when nothing is going on? Sure, they’ve had their little prayer meetings, and a Bible study that’s been going on in Samuel’s house for the past twenty years, but are they out there harvesting souls for Jesus? What do you call that kind of faith if not stagnant?”
“It was Samuel’s prayers God heard, Paul. It was his prayers that brought you here.”
“I know. And Samuel has been praying for revival. He told me, too. That’s what I’m trying to bring, Euny. Revival!”
Eunice knew she had chosen the wrong time to talk with him and seek his counsel. Paul was always impatient on Saturday, putting the last polishes on his sermon and practicing it for Sunday morning. “I think I’ll go out for a walk with Timmy.”
And the Shofar Blew Page 6
