“I’m sick of sitting with a bunch of hypocrites, Samuel. Mrs. Lockford and her gestapo checking up on everyone. Mr. Boham telling the youth group we have to sacrifice for the kingdom while he goes out and buys himself a new car every year. Mrs. Boham yapping about the moral decay of America’s youth. Did you know she tapes three soap operas a day?”
“How do you know that?”
“Trudy. She’s as hooked as her mother. She eats the stuff up! And her mother looks down her nose at me because I listen to heavy metal.” He straddled the chair again. “You’re lucky to be out of it.”
He wasn’t out of it. He’d just found another way to be in it. “You need to change your focus. Look up.”
“Yeah, right. Up at the pulpit? At my dad? All that talk about how we’re supposed to ‘love one another.’ He’s the biggest hypocrite in the whole place.”
At least he didn’t include his mother in his sweeping condemnation.
“Look higher, Tim.”
“What’s to see? A couple of pieces of wood nailed to the front wall? It doesn’t mean anything. Not to them. Not that I can see.” He bowed his head. “I don’t even know if I believe in Jesus anymore. Or even if I want to.”
Of all the things Tim had said over the past two hours, that grieved Samuel the most. He knew what it was like to feel cut out, cut off, defeated. Even after years of loving and serving the Lord, Samuel had his moments of discouragement. He’d had his times of shaking his fist at heaven and asking why. Every day demanded a decision, and some days Samuel pleaded for Jesus to take him home. Lord, I miss my wife. Why do I have to stick around without her? He knew what Abby would say to that. “You’d better pray, Samuel. You’re in a battle. Let the Lord arm you. You can’t face the enemy in spiritual underwear.”
So, Lord, what do I say? The boy’s in no mood for a sermon.
Tim sat silent. Samuel could only hope the boy was waiting for a rebuttal.
“People fail all the time, Tim. It’s our nature to mess things up. The only man who ever made it through life without botching it was Jesus, and He’s God. Look to Him. Don’t expect your father to have all the answers you need.”
“No kidding.” His mouth twisted. “Sometimes I wonder if Dad even believes. What’s he need God for, anyway? He thinks he can do everything all by himself.”
Timothy Hudson had more wisdom than he knew. “You were on fire for Jesus once.”
“Maybe.”
“I was there the day you were baptized.”
“It didn’t take.”
“What part of you didn’t get dipped?”
“Well, then, let’s say I can’t see that it’s changed anything.”
“I’ll tell you what. You follow your faith, as weak as it is, rather than your doubts, as strong as they seem to you right now. You do that and leave the rest up to God. He’ll make sure everything goes according to plan.”
Tim tilted his head and looked at him. How could one so young have such a cynical smile? “It’d be a whole lot easier if I weren’t going to church.”
Paul tried to focus on the meeting, but his mind kept slipping back to Eunice and Tim. He shouldn’t have lost his temper. He should’ve listened to his son’s side of the story. But he’d just spent a grueling hour with Rob Atherton, trying to get that man to open up. He might as well have been digging clams in high tide. Sheila had been the one to ask for marriage counseling, but he wouldn’t get far if Rob wasn’t going to cooperate.
After an hour with the reticent Rob, he’d been tied up in knots of frustration over trying to help a couple without turning the husband off to the church. Rob was on the fence, and Paul didn’t want the man throwing his resources in the wrong direction. The sight of Tim with another black eye had obliterated what little patience he had left.
And now this meeting. Couldn’t these men do anything without him?
“So, what do you want us to do, Paul?”
“The only thing we can do right now. Shave money off missions and pay the subcontractors. I don’t want to have the same conversation with Stephen Decker next week that I had with him last time. If we’re going to get things done, we’re going to have to make sacrifices.”
Marvin nodded. “That’s what I’ve been saying all along. We need to keep the money here, not off in some foreign country with people we’ve never even met.”
“We have to do what’s best for our congregation,” Gerald agreed.
They talked for a while longer. Everyone wanted to do what was best for the church. And what was best was to keep it growing.
On the way home, Paul called Stephen on his cell phone and left a message that Marvin Lockford would have a check ready for him in the morning. “I’m sorry about the delay, Stephen. I didn’t know about it.” How many other things had slipped by him? He was going to have to be more diligent. Too bad he couldn’t be cloned.
Maybe he should stop at the market for a bouquet. It had been a long time since he’d brought flowers home to Eunice. He leaned over and took a fresh package of Tums from his glove compartment. His dash clock showed 9:48. If he stopped, it would just mean another fifteen minutes later getting home. Maybe longer if Maggie O’Brien was at the checkout stand. She talked his ear off every time he saw her and, at this hour, customers would be few and far between and he wouldn’t have a ready excuse to escape. No, he’d better wait on the flowers. He could always send Reka over tomorrow to buy a bouquet. He chewed a second Tums.
The living-room lights were off when he pulled into the driveway. He pressed the garage-door remote. Tim’s bike was leaning against the wall, his helmet hanging from a handlebar. Tim. What am I going to do about that kid, God? He’s driving me crazy. Could You help me a little? Turn him around, Lord.
Paul took off his jacket and loosened his tie as he went upstairs. The television was playing in the den, Tim sprawled on the couch.
“You know I don’t want you watching that show.” Paul picked up the remote and turned the television off. “And it’s after ten.”
Tim stretched and came to his feet. “You’re home early.”
Was he trying to pick a fight? “Look, I’m sorry about this afternoon in my office. I had a tough day.”
“So did I.”
Paul leaned against the doorjamb. “Your mom said it was four to one.”
“I wasn’t keeping score.”
“You want to tell me about it?”
Tim picked up his sneakers and walked to the door. “It’s a little late, Dad.”
“Not too late.”
The telephone rang. Tim gave him a wry look and stepped past him.
“Tim . . .” The telephone rang for a third time, the sound grating on Paul’s nerves. It was late. Couldn’t people leave him alone?
“You’d better get it, Dad. It might be someone important.” Tim went into his room and closed the door.
The phone stopped ringing. It was about time Eunice answered. Paul tossed the remote onto the couch. He paused at Tim’s door, but decided to leave him alone. Better to wait until morning after they’d both had a good night’s sleep. He opened the door of the master bedroom and shrugged off his jacket.
“Paul . . . ”
“Take a message. I’m beat.”
“It’s your mother.”
He could see something was terribly wrong. He took the phone. “Mom? What’s happened?”
“Your father, Paul.” She was crying. “He’s dead!”
CHAPTER 12
PAUL SAT in the front row of his father’s church, his mother on one side, and his wife and son on the other. Staring straight ahead, he struggled against the anger gnawing. Old hurts rose, taunting him as he listened to the speakers praise his father. Representatives from the community, the state, the nation were in attendance. Five thousand people were here to pay their respects, among them state politicians, movie stars, well-known evangelical preachers, as well as other religious leaders who lauded David Hudson for his love of all mankind. There was even a guru in the crowd, a
long with a dozen of his robed followers sitting in the pews. Flowers and messages of condolence had been pouring in. People magazine had called his mother for an interview.
He should have known his father would find some way out of the world before the Valley New Life Center was complete. Another five years and Paul might have earned his father’s respect and approval.
Too late now. David Hudson, renowned evangelical preacher, was being laid to rest, his eloquence silenced forever. Other than what he had to say in the book that still topped the best-seller lists.
His mother refused to speak to anyone in the press. “If you love me, Paul, you will say nothing. You will sit beside me and hold my hand and help me get through this three-ring circus!” She was pale, dark circles under her eyes, and so distraught he didn’t argue. “I don’t want his funeral to be a golden opportunity.”
Opportunity? The word stung.
So here he sat among thousands, silent, holding her hand and his tongue while others outside the church praised his father. He could have said more and said it better than newspaper reporters and those in front of the TV cameras. Who knew a father better than his own son? Would people wonder why he wasn’t speaking? Would they take it as an affront to the memory of the great David Hudson? But he’d abide by his mother’s wishes. Unless she changed her mind. He leaned down, but her hand tightened. Her face was rigid, her ashen face streaked with tears.
Everything was being done according to her wishes. Even the simple service with Joseph Wheeler presiding. Paul wondered how many attendees were offended by the gospel message. He could hear the shifting in the pews, the soft murmuring voices. Wheeler didn’t falter. He spelled it out in simple, uncompromising steps to salvation. Jesus saves. No one else. He gave the benediction, and the praise orchestra began the postlude. Eunice probably loved the hymns. The ushers came forward to escort him and his mother up the aisle. Eunice and Tim followed close behind.
Photographers, cameramen, and reporters were waiting out front. His mother’s hand tightened on his arm. “Stay beside me.”
“They will expect someone to speak for the family.”
“I don’t care what ‘they’ expect. This is the last time your father will be in the public eye, and we’re going to do what’s right! Say nothing! Do you understand me, Paul? Not a word.” She drew the black veil down over her face and walked with him out the front doors of the church.
Cameras flashed. Reporters pushed forward. Questions came from all sides as microphones were held up. Excitement beat through Paul. Several of the ushers moved in to block the press as Paul escorted his mother down the steps to the waiting black limousine.
“Mrs. Hudson, can you give us a few words?”
“Mrs. Hudson!”
“Mrs. Hudson!”
“Mrs. Hudson!”
“Mrs. Hudson!”
“Mrs. Hudson!”
The driver opened the car door and his mother almost dove inside. Paul held back, waiting for Eunice and Tim to get in ahead of him. There was so much he wanted to say about his father. He recognized some of the news reporters. He had seen them on television.
“This is Paul Hudson, David Hudson’s only son. Reverend Hudson, your father was one of the greatest evangelists of the twentieth century. And now, we’ve been informed you’re building a church in the Central Valley to rival his efforts. Are you hoping to follow in your father’s footsteps?” A beautiful blonde thrust a microphone forward.
The ushers moved in front of him, putting their arms out to block the press advance while the limo attendant beckoned behind Paul.
“Paul!” His mother reached out to him. He couldn’t ignore her without it making the press. Sliding into the limo beside her, he looked out as the door was closed firmly, shutting off his last chance to say anything. As the limousine moved swiftly away from the curb, Paul looked out at the sea of faces. “A few words wouldn’t have hurt, Mother.” She could have given him one minute, at least. “They’ll think I don’t care.”
She looked away.
“Let them think you’re too bereaved to say anything,” Eunice said, glaring at him through her tears.
What was wrong with her?
Tim peered through the tinted one-way windows. “Is that the governor?”
Paul glanced out, fighting his resentment. “Yes.” He hadn’t even had a chance to shake his hand.
“Wow!” Tim said. “And there’s Tom Davenport! He’s got a new movie coming out next month. I didn’t know Grandpa knew him.”
“He’s no more important than anyone else, Tim.”
Paul’s resentment boiled hotter at Eunice’s remark.
“Don’t forget why we’re here.”
“Sorry, Grandma.”
His mother stared straight ahead. “A lot of people came to get their faces in the papers or on the evening news.”
Paul was surprised and disappointed that his father’s memorial service received only five minutes of news coverage. The anchorwoman summed up David Hudson’s illustrious career using clips of Paul’s father preaching in the church he had built, then another clip when he was preaching to fifty thousand in a football stadium. There were clips of him shaking hands with President Ronald Reagan and, later, President Bill Clinton. The governor, Tom Davenport, and several other celebrities interviewed had a couple of seconds’ coverage each. The last shot was of Paul and his mother coming down the steps of the church, Eunice and Tim behind them. The news commentator tapped her papers and set them aside as she moved on to other newsworthy events.
“The world will continue to turn without him, Paul.”
He glanced up sharply and saw his mother standing in the doorway. Why should he be embarrassed for watching the news? Why should he feel guilty? What was wrong with wanting to see what the media had to say about his father’s death?
He was still upset over the news that his father’s body was being shipped to Midvale, Missouri. His father would have hated the idea. Paul remembered his father’s assessment of his own father. “Your grandfather moved us from town to town for twenty years and never preached to crowds bigger than a few hundred! Don’t listen to your mother. She’s got some Pollyanna idea about who my father was and what he accomplished. Just because he was a nice old man doesn’t mean he ever did anything worthwhile for God. The Bible says a man who doesn’t take care of his family is worse than an unbeliever. I grew up wearing shoes and clothes my mother got from church rummage sales! My father could barely pay the rent on whatever dilapidated shack we lived in. I can remember going to bed hungry! If you want to be a great man of God, don’t look to Ezra Hudson. Your grandfather was a complete failure as a preacher—and as a man.”
“You’re still angry with me, aren’t you, Paul?”
“Not angry. Disappointed. I want to understand, Mother. Why wouldn’t you allow me to say anything on behalf of Dad?”
“You used to call me Mom.” She sighed. “There’s a lot you don’t know, Paul.”
“Then tell me.”
She searched his eyes for a moment and then shook her head. “Some of it you know already. Some you’re not willing to remember.” She sat in a wing chair near the window and pushed the sheer curtain aside so that she could look out. “Another time.” She was pale and strained. “I loved him, too, Paul. A lot more and for a lot longer.”
“I know he wasn’t perfect, Mom. But we’re supposed to forgive. We made our peace. I thought you understood that.”
“Oh, I know. I saw the change in you.”
“We should have made a statement.”
She lowered her hand and the sheer curtain floated back into place. “Don’t you think it was enough for that news lady to say, ‘The grieving family departed without making a statement to the press’?”
“No.”
Her mouth tipped in a melancholy smile. “Why not?”
“Because he would’ve wanted more.”
“A national holiday in his name, perhaps?”
“Don
’t joke, Mom.”
Silence fell between them. He struggled against the tears choking him. He was so angry he wanted to smash something. He felt his mother’s eyes on him, watching, waiting. He felt small and petty beneath her tender perusal. She let out her breath slowly and leaned her head back. “He was on his way to Chicago to discuss the details of his latest venture.”
“Another book?” He didn’t want to sound envious or bitter, but he knew both emotions were eating at him.
“His alma mater offered him a teaching position. He was going to conduct seminars for Christian leaders on how to build a church.”
“All he ever told me is he had other irons in the fire.” Despair filled Paul. So much for thinking he and his father had any kind of relationship. “I thought Dad and I were getting closer over the last few years.” He’d never measured up to his father’s expectations. He’d never quite made the grade. Even with everything he had accomplished at VNLC, he still fell short.
“He was a sinner, Paul, just like you and me. I didn’t want you to say anything because he had been elevated high enough already.” She shook her head. “I didn’t want you to say something that would have pleased him. Enough has been said. Far too much. And anything you might have added would have been a lie.”
His head came up. “What do you mean by that?”
“If you don’t understand, you’ve forgotten everything I ever taught you about the Lord and what He wants of us.” Her voice was low. “That grieves me even more than your father’s death, Paul.”
He had never been able to gain his father’s approval, and now it seemed he had failed his mother as well. His eyes blurred with tears. “I would have spoken about what he did right, Mom, not what he did wrong.”
“I wanted the gospel presented at your father’s memorial service. I wanted the truth proclaimed clearly and simply. Christ glorified.” Her voice was husky with strain and sorrow. “I wanted the last words uttered in that service to be about the One who redeemed us and made a way for us to return to God’s embrace.”
“How can I argue with that?”
And the Shofar Blew Page 29
