Mountain Top

by Robert Whitlow

“I know, and I’m not trying to make you feel bad for not helping us or talk you into doing something you don’t want to do.”

  “Then why did you come?”

  Muriel put her hand on Peg’s shoulder.

  “For her. Sam says you’re going to become more like him, and I wanted to help your wife get ready for it. There wasn’t anyone to guide me, and I had it rough, especially in the early years.”

  Mike could imagine that forty years of marriage to someone like Sam Miller could be stressful. He spoke gently but firmly.

  “That’s kind of you, Mrs. Miller, but Sam doesn’t have the right to decide the path God has for me.”

  “I know how it sounds to you. Believe me, I do. The revelation about the baby was to help you accept him, but if that doesn’t work, I guess I’ll have to wait and see where my help comes from.”

  “Your help comes from the Lord,” Mike said.

  Muriel managed a slight smile. “Yes, that’s always true.”

  Mike stood to signal the end of the conversation. Muriel rose to her feet, and Mike escorted her to the door.

  “Good-bye,” she said to both Mike and Peg.

  “Bye,” Peg responded.

  Mike shut the door and leaned against it.

  “I’m glad that’s over,” he said. “Sorry you were dragged into it.”

  “Sorry?” Peg responded, her voice rising. “You’re right about that!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I wish I’d had a tape recorder running. Is that the way you used to talk down to your clients?”

  “When did you start taking up for uneducated mountain women and their husbands?” Mike shot back.

  “Didn’t you hear her? She wants to help us. To help me. How often does that happen around this church?”

  “That’s an exaggeration.”

  “Any examples?”

  Mike thought a moment but couldn’t quickly retrieve a recent instance.

  “Uh, the gifts for the house we received when I took the job.”

  “That was almost three years ago!”

  “That’s not the point. Don’t tell me you believe that nonsense about me becoming like Mrs. Miller’s husband?”

  “You have dreams all the time.”

  “But they don’t mean anything.”

  “Maybe not, but she seemed like a nice old lady, and you treated her like a first-grade child.”

  “If you thought I was out of line, why didn’t you say anything?”

  “Would it have done any good?”

  Mike hesitated. It was time to cool the rhetoric.

  “Probably not.”

  “That’s the most honest, sincere thing you’ve said in the past fifteen minutes! What a parting platitude—‘Your help comes from the Lord,’” Peg mimicked his voice.

  “She agreed with me!” Mike protested, his voice getting louder again.

  “But God uses people,” Peg said, pointing at his chest. “I’ve heard you say it many times from the pulpit. God initiates—”

  “We respond,” Mike completed the sentence. “But do you really think I should represent this guy?”

  Peg held up her hands. “That’s not for me to decide. But the way you cut her off was coldhearted. At supper last night, you made her husband sound like a nut. Why didn’t you mention that he told you about the baby? You’re still enough of a lawyer to recognize relevant information, aren’t you?”

  “It didn’t cross my mind. As I was leaving the interview room, he made an off-the-wall comment about Isaac coming to visit us. I didn’t make the connection.”

  “Maybe you should have paid more attention.”

  Mike responded in a softer voice, “There’s no easy way to explain some of the things Sam Miller said to me, but the real issue is whether I want to represent him. If I did, there could be consequences. I’d need to get approval from the session.”

  Peg shrugged. “Tell them it’s a pro bono project for an old man who may be mentally unstable but needs guidance through the court system. What are they going to do? Cut your salary?”

  Mike couldn’t suppress a slight smile.

  “Don’t you have a meeting with the elders tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “You can put together a persuasive argument by then. How much time would you spend on a case like this? Didn’t you think it might be just an error at the bank?”

  “Maybe, but you never know. And every conversation with Sam Miller will be twice as long as necessary.”

  Peg relaxed against the love seat. “I’m fine with any decision you make so long as you apologize to Muriel Miller the next time you talk to her.”

  Mike shook his head. “I always knew you would have been a better lawyer than me.”

  Peg leaned forward and patted him on the cheek. “Don’t flatter me. Any woman could do what I do.”

  THE ELDERS OF LITTLE CREEK CHURCH MET ON THE SECOND Tuesday of each month. Mike always prepared a written report on the state of the church and the items for discussion and action. He’d learned not to include specific recommendations in his report because a few members of the eight-person group opposed any new ideas merely for the sake of argument. So, Mike adopted a simple strategy. He didn’t offer an opinion on matters under consideration until after the elders tossed out ideas and criticized one another. Then, when someone made a suggestion close to Mike’s opinion, he threw his support behind it and subtly tried to maneuver the final outcome to a desired result. Occasionally, when a better idea came forth, he quickly jettisoned his own idea and praised the person who suggested the better alternative.

  Mike usually didn’t go home for supper before the 7:00 p.m. meeting. He kept frozen pizzas in the church refrigerator and put one in the oven shortly after Delores left for the day. While he waited for the pizza to cook, Nathan Goode came into the church kitchen.

  “What’s for supper?” Nathan asked. “Pepperoni or meat lover’s?”

  “Hawaiian.”

  “When did you go Polynesian?”

  “It’s the pineapple. I have fresh pieces to put on when it comes out of the oven.”

  “Big enough for two? I’ll eat fast and help clean the kitchen before anyone gets here.”

  “Sure.”

  Nathan rarely came to the session meetings. The music director had a basketful of hassles with the bureaucracy at the high school, and Mike didn’t want to add another layer of officialdom to the young man’s life.

  Mike took the pizza from the oven, sprinkled the pineapple on top, and cut the pizza into large slices.

  “Anything you want me to mention to the elders?” he asked as he nibbled a hot bite.

  “A twenty-five percent raise and four weeks paid vacation.”

  “What else?”

  Nathan grinned. “Nothing, sir. Working with you is worth more than any amount of money.”

  “Save that for the school principal.”

  They ate in silence for a few minutes.

  Nathan poured a soft drink into a glass. “There are a couple of kids who told me they’re going to visit the youth group.”

  Not many teenagers attended the church. It was a problem Mike hadn’t been able to solve.

  “Who are they?”

  “One plays electric guitar, the other is a drummer.”

  Mike reached for another slice of pizza. “You’re starting a rock band on Sunday night?”

  “Alternative praise music would be more accurate. Nothing too extreme, but different enough to be interesting to the kids. Aren’t you the one who told me I would have to take risks in ministry if I wanted to help the people who really need it?”

  “Did I say that?”

  “Once when you hired me and another time in a staff meeting.”

  “I’m not sure this plan is going to fly under the radar.”

  “The drummer is Chaz Gaston, the younger son of Mitchell Gaston. He’s a kid on the brink of trouble who could go bad if no one steps in to help him.”

  Mi
tchell Gaston had moved to the mountains from Atlanta after selling an Internet start-up at the height of the dot-com boom. All his children except Chaz were grown and out of the impressive house on the crest of a nearby hill. Luring the Gastons to the congregation would appeal to the elders.

  “That might work,” Mike replied. “Do his parents like the fact that their son plays the drums? I don’t want to encourage something the parents don’t support.”

  “They invested five grand in his set.”

  “I’ll bring it up tonight.”

  MIKE RETURNED TO HIS OFFICE AND INCLUDED “CREATIVE WAYS for increasing interest in the youth group” to the night’s agenda. At the end of the list he added “Unique opportunity for outreach to the community.” On his own copy he penciled in “Taking risks in ministry to help people on the edge.” In Sam Miller’s case, that meant the edge of reason.

  The session met in a conference room that contained a long wooden table surrounded by twelve burgundy chairs. More chairs lined the walls. On Sunday mornings, the room was used by an adult class known for its coffee. Mike often wandered in before the class started and grabbed a cup.

  On session nights, Mike prepared two pitchers of ice water and brewed a pot of decaf coffee. It wasn’t unusual for the meetings to last two or three hours, and he didn’t want to prolong the time by pumping caffeine into the elders’ veins.

  There were six men and two women on the session. Used to persuading juries that included all kinds of people, Mike’s emphasis was on building consensus regardless of gender.

  By 7:00 p.m., the room was ready. Mike placed neat stacks of papers for each elder at the end of the table. With Barbara Harcourt’s absence there would be seven in attendance. Bobby Lambert arrived. Bobby spent most of his time poring over contracts and business documents. He researched legal issues for Mr. Forrest but never appeared in court independently. Normally an impeccable dresser, his former law partner’s tie was loosened and his hair disheveled.

  “What’s going on with you?” Mike asked.

  “Wishing your name was still over the front door,” Bobby replied. “Mr. Forrest has been impossible to deal with for the past couple of weeks.”

  “Is it his blood pressure?”

  “I asked him about his health the other day, and he told me to mind my own business. He’s been huddled in meetings and dumped several files on my desk that have taken tons of time to sort through and figure out. I can’t double-bill the client for file review, and I have to work overtime to keep my own receipts on track.”

  “What kind of files?”

  “Transactional stuff that Mr. Forrest can do in his sleep. That’s what makes it so strange. You know how efficient he is at putting deals together. I’ve pirated his form books, but each situation requires customization.”

  His first three years at the firm, Mike served as Maxwell Forrest’s associate and learned to appreciate the challenges and rewards of a corporate practice. Creating the right legal framework for each business arrangement could be interesting and the interaction with clients stimulating. Mike shifted into trial work when the firm’s litigation partner retired but remained available as a backup for Mr. Forrest.

  “What about the other guys?”

  Bobby lowered his voice. “Park is moving to Charlotte to work for an insurance defense firm. This is his last week. All his work has been shifted to Arnold, who is working longer hours than I am.”

  As the other members of the session arrived, Mike greeted them. When they were seated, he asked Milton Chesterfield, the oldest member of the group and the richest man in the church, to pray. Milton’s prayer was as predictable as the opening lines of Genesis. Mike had never heard him utter a modified version.

  “Sovereign God, help us to do Thy will in this meeting. Amen.”

  The elders followed the written agenda. Mike sat back and listened. First, the financial report. Offerings exceeded the level needed to keep pace with the budget, but two elders urged fiscal caution and curtailing expenditures. Mike didn’t fret. After thirty minutes of discussion, nothing changed.

  The facilities report included a presentation by Libby Gorman on the condition of the church cemetery. Some of the older monuments and markers needed repair, and she believed family members should bear the expense of work on their plots, with the church paying for those with no known living descendants. One of the largest plots in the cemetery was devoted to deceased members of the Chesterfield family.

  “I think the church should take care of the maintenance for everyone,” Milton said. “I shouldn’t be punished because my family stayed loyal to the church and didn’t move away.”

  “I think it would be a privilege to tidy up our family plots.” Libby sniffed.

  “What efforts did you make to find relatives?” Milton asked.

  “My daughter-in-law spent hours on her computer trying to track folks down,” Libby answered. She held up a sheet of paper. “And I sent out forty letters.”

  “This issue is covered by the Equal Protection Clause of the Constitution,” Bobby said, winking at Mike mischievously. “Everyone who is dead should be treated the same, especially if the body was transported in interstate commerce. Anything less would be a denial of their due process rights—”

  “Thanks for sending the letters, Libby,” Mike interrupted. “Did you receive any responses?”

  Libby glanced down at a pad she’d placed on the table. “Uh, eight so far, including four from people willing to pay something if the amount is reasonable.”

  The discussion continued for another half hour. In the end, Bobby was the one who suggested an acceptable compromise. Payment for repairs by descendants was voluntary, but if they did so, the church would place a small marker on the plot indicating that it had been restored through a generous gift from the family.

  Most of the argumentative steam in the group had been vented by the time they reached the youth group item. However, Mike didn’t try to water down Nathan’s proposal. “He wants to allow students to play electric guitars and drums,” Mike said.

  “In the sanctuary?” Libby asked in dismay.

  “No, of course not; I would have stopped that myself. The music will be confined to the youth room and only on Sunday nights.”

  “It’s important to maintain decorum at all times,” Milton added with emphasis. “Including the Sunday sermon. Mike, you have a lot of good things to say, but at times you get carried away—”

  “Let’s stay on the issue,” Bobby interjected.

  “The boy who plays drums is Mitchell Gaston’s son,” Mike added calmly. “It’s a great opportunity to connect the Gaston family with the church.”

  Milton’s eyes opened wide. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

  After a few minutes of discussion, permission was granted, provided the volume wasn’t too loud and no parents complained. Mike didn’t push. An open door was all Nathan could ask for. It would be up to him to sell it to the parents.

  “The last item on the agenda doesn’t require discussion, only your approval,” Mike said, straightening his papers in preparation for the end of the meeting. “It involves a fellow minister who needs legal assistance that I’ll provide without charge. I wanted to let you know about it before I did anything. Milton, will you pray?”

  Before Milton began, Bobby Lambert put down his coffee cup and spoke.

  “What kind of assistance?” the lawyer asked.

  “A misunderstanding about church finances,” Mike replied nonchalantly.

  “How serious a misunderstanding?” Bobby persisted.

  Mike looked at Bobby and tried to send an unspoken signal to leave the issue alone.

  “Yeah, give us the details,” Rick Weston, another elder, said.

  Mike shrugged. “It resulted in a criminal charge but may be the result of a bank error.”

  “Is it a felony charge?” Bobby asked.

  Mike nodded. “Class C.”

  “Then it involves at lea
st a hundred thousand dollars,” the lawyer said, sitting up in his chair. “That’s a big error for a bank to make.”

  “It’s just zeros to them,” Mike replied. “I haven’t investigated anything in detail. His wife contacted the church and asked for help. I met with him at the jail.”

  “You went to the jail?” Libby asked. “That’s not an appropriate place for our minister to be seen.”

  “The apostle Paul spent a lot of time in jail,” Bobby said. “How much time did he build behind bars, Mike? Three or four years?”

  “At least,” Mike said. “But this man is not the apostle Paul.”

  “What’s his name?” Libby asked.

  “Sam Miller.”

  “The yardman?” Milton asked.

  “Yes,” Mike said.

  “He’s no minister,” Milton grunted. “He used to cut my neighbor’s grass.”

  “He’s a lay preacher,” Mike answered. “I doubt he has any theological education or recognized ordination.”

  “Wouldn’t he qualify for an appointed lawyer?” Bobby asked.

  “No, he owns a home and runs a small business.”

  “Then he should hire his own lawyer!” Milton said sharply. “This is a church, not a legal aid society! If you don’t have enough to keep you busy, we need to discuss modification of your job description.”

  Mike started to respond then stopped.

  “What’s really going on?” Bobby asked. “Why do you want to do this?”

  Mike paused before answering. If he wanted to retreat, now would be the time to do so gracefully.

  “Because I believe God wants me to help him,” he said with more conviction than he felt. “I’m working very hard to be a faithful pastor for this church, and this is not some kind of professional identity crisis. I’m more confident of my call to the ministry than ever and have no interest in returning to the law. This church is where I want to be, and I intend to stay here as long as you’ll have me. I’m simply asking you to allow me to help someone in need, and trust me to do it in a way that honors God.” There was silence for several seconds. The elders glanced at one another.

  “Mike, would you please step out of the room for a few minutes while we talk?” Bobby asked.

  Mike hesitated. “Let me make one thing clear,” he said. “I want to do this, but if you tell me no, I’ll accept your decision and won’t mention it again.”