Bruce and the kids were airlifted to a hospital in Spokane, and that was where I found them. Bruce had broken ribs and facial lacerations. The kids had minor injuries from flying glass and seat restraints. He was coherent, but we didn’t talk. There were no words, only shock and an insurmountable disbelief.
Annie was gone. Instantly. Before any of us could fathom that we had lost anything, she simply wasn’t there. We could not believe it that night. We could scarcely believe it the next morning. Shock did not give way to grief until well into the next day.
And then the questions came: With miles and miles of open road, why that truck, that car, together at that time in that place? Why was the accident so ruthlessly, savagely perfect?
Like everyone else, I drew upon my faith for comfort and tried to share that comfort as best I could. But inside, I was asking the same questions as everyone else, knowing there would never be answers.
There was no funeral, only a memorial service once Bruce had healed enough to attend. All who knew and loved Annie were there, and took turns sharing their thoughts and remembrances. I spoke briefly about the need to trust God in all circumstances, for his ways are unsearchable. I reminded everyone that Annie, knowing Jesus, was in a better place and just fine, but I could feel my insides quaking and I teetered on the brink of tears with every sentence. After we sang our last song, I stole quietly into a back room, sat down with my face in my hands, and lost it completely. Oh dear Lord, why? Why Annie? What’s Bruce going to do now? What about Josh and Jamie?
I didn’t hear anyone come in. I just felt a hand on my shoulder and heard a quiet whisper, “It’s okay . . . it’s okay.”
I reached up and touched the hand touching me, then looked into the scarred, black-and-blue face of Bruce Hiddle. He sat down, put his arm around my shoulders and let me cry, not saying another word. I was supposed to be the minister bringing comfort to the grieving, but I was drained of comfort. Bruce, a quiet serenity showing through his scars and his tears, was ready to share what he had.
In the months that followed, Bruce often got tearful, at any time, in any place, usually without warning, but he didn’t seem self-conscious about it. “It’s for Annie,” he would tell people. “Don’t worry, it’s just something I have to do.” The rest of the time, he was the friend, daddy, and brother we all cherished, with a glow about him that the scars and the stitches could not extinguish. The scars eventually faded. The glow still remains.
“It’s Jesus,” he always explained. “He knows the answers. He’ll work it out.”
Two years later, the Lord brought Libby McLane into Bruce’s life, and in the summer of 1992, they were wed in our little church on Elm Street. Josh and Jamie stood with their dad and their new mom as I performed the ceremony, and once again, I teetered on the brink of tears with every sentence.
“It’s okay,” Bruce whispered to me as he held his bride’s hand. “It’s okay.”
MR. FRAMER. He said he’d been to church already and didn’t need any more of it. Well, we saw no need to argue with that, but church wasn’t the question, Jesus was.
But although Mr. Framer didn’t need any more religion, he did need a haircut. Marian volunteered and gave him a trim every two weeks. Having accepted her help, he was ready to accept mine, and so I helped him put a new roof on his house over several weekends. The next thing we knew, he was mowing the church grass every week without anyone asking him. When we started running a bus ministry around town, he was the guy who provided the bus and kept it running.
Four years after we started renting the church building, he finally came to a Sunday morning service, slipping in behind a group of folks to escape notice. I saw him come in but didn’t make a big deal out of it. I just winked at him. We played that little game for the next few months, long enough for him to discover he could talk to just about anyone in that church without something spooky or “religious” happening to him.
Only when I was sure it was safe did I ask him about Mrs. Framer, and why she was not attending church with him. He didn’t give me a clear answer that Sunday, but the following Wednesday he gave me a strong enough hint.
He brought over a portable, battery-powered chemical toilet for us to install under the basement stairway. That way, he said, the ladies wouldn’t have to trek out to the outhouse during a service, but could fulfill their natural obligations with some comfort and delicacy. I could tell he thought very highly of his gesture, so I didn’t refuse it. We put the toilet under the stairs and nailed up a plywood wall and a thin little door with a springed hinge.
A chemical toilet is a box-shaped contraption with a toilet seat on top that doesn’t flush to an outside sewer or septic system. It has two tanks inside it, one for fresh water and chemicals, the other to hold all the flushed waste. When you’re finished and you press a little button, the electric pump kicks on, the blue water and chemical mix swirls around the bowl, and the toilet tucks away your contribution in its holding tank.
The toilet Mr. Framer gave us was comfortable. I know that from personal experience, and others would agree. As for delicate, well, that toilet just couldn’t keep a secret. The electric pump was loud, and it would grind on forever, announcing to the entire congregation seated upstairs that a modest user had just finished and would be rejoining the service directly. If that wasn’t announcement enough, the slam of that plywood door was.
And then there was the smell. Though intended for the ladies and their need for comfort and privacy, it’s just a fact of life that one good toilet among forty churchgoers is going to get used by everyone. Our little camping toilet wasn’t meant to handle a load that size, and it didn’t.
No matter. As soon as that toilet was in, Mrs. Framer came to church. The Framers heard the gospel every Sunday for two more years, and finally came forward to receive Christ one Sunday night. Nothing tragic had occurred in their lives. There was no crisis or desperate material need to make them turn to God. They were just ready, that was all. It was time.
But I do credit the Framers with our board’s unanimous decision to do “whatever was necessary” to get a septic system approved and a real flushing toilet installed. That motion was seconded and carried within a month of the chemical toilet’s arrival, and when we installed men’s and women’s flush toilet restrooms in the basement, the Framers were there to cut the ribbon.
RICH WATKINS. A former biker, now a trucker, with long, black hair in a ponytail and eagles, skulls, snakes, and naked women tattooed all over his huge arms. When we marched for Jesus down the main highway through town with signs and placards proclaiming his name, Rich happened to be in the tavern and stepped outside to watch us go by. Some of his drinking buddies laughed at us, but Rich just read our signs and listened to us sing. I saw the look on his face and thought, Dear Lord, protect us. That guy looks like trouble.
He pulled up in front of our church on his Harley Sunday morning, sat quietly through the whole service, and then said to me afterward, “So this where you find Jesus?”
“It sure is,” I said.
“Well, I’ve decided I gotta square up with my old lady, but I’d better get right with God first, know what I mean?”
I prayed with him, led him to Christ, and eventually met his wife, Clarice, and their four children. Now this guy was one monumental discipling job. He’d never been to Sunday school or had any kind of Christian upbringing, so Marian and I and our church family had to do it all. We had to teach him the subtleties of doctrine, concepts such as, You don’t usually lead a person to repentance by breaking a beer bottle over his head, and such fine points as, Turning the other cheek doesn’t mean you walk up and moon somebody you don’t like.
He’s still growing in the Lord, and recently took a big step we were all proud of: He volunteered to go into the public schools and give the kids a no-holds-barred lecture about staying off drugs. The kids love his presentations. The parents and teachers do too, especially since we finally broke him of the habit of referring to Satan
as “that dirty SOB the devil.”
If I ever needed a mental image of the early Simon Peter, I just imagined Rich Watkins and I had it.
GUY FORBES. He ran the local movie theater. When he showed an X-rated movie, I got some of the other pastors and their churches to join us in picketing the theater both nights. I thought he’d be mad at us—many of the folks going into the theater were—but he called me that week and apologized for showing the movie. We got together for lunch after that, got to know and trust each other, and later started up our own, impromptu movie rating committee between the two of us. He didn’t always go along with the other half of the committee, but we reached more agreements than disagreements, and our town enjoyed a little more peace because of it. He has yet to get saved, but we have a strong, mutual respect.
BOB FISHER, Paul Daley, the Sisson brothers, Jake Helgeson, Rudie Whaler, Tinker Moore, and twenty other guys and gals who showed up the night our house caught fire. You never appreciate your neighbors quite so much as when you’re in trouble, and that night, when Marian turned away from some French fries to answer the phone and a grease fire broke out, we owed those folks everything. The fire took out most of the kitchen and blackened the rest of the house, but thanks to the faithful folks of the volunteer fire department, most of our belongings made it through. After the fire, the town almost buried us in clothing, food, dishes, and utensils to replace what we had lost. I’d done a lot of visitation around town, knocking on doors to get acquainted with people, but I don’t know that I ever met as many folks as when we were in need and they came by to help out.
Antioch’s a great town, it really is.
THAT FARMHAND—I never learned his name. Tom something. He was working for George Harding during harvest and got his foot caught in a combine auger. I was driving the truck and heard him screaming. By the time we shut the machine down and got him out, his ankle had made at least two full rotations.
“Pray for me, preacher!” he kept screaming.
I touched his ankle—very gently—and prayed, “Lord, please heal this leg, please restore it in Jesus’ name.”
He was back at work the next day, climbing all over that machine as if nothing had happened.
He moved on after harvest. I don’t know if he ever got saved.
LANCE MONTGOMERY; Tiger, Cecily, and Moira Bradley; Ron and Vicki Hanson and their sons, Ned and Tom; the rest of the youth group and a fair share of the town. One of the kids got an old 8mm home movie camera, and I got an idea. I wrote a script and our youth group made a movie, a fifty-five minute epic shot on location in and around the town of Antioch. The whole production cost us five hundred dollars and took a year to film. We staged a big car wreck, burned down a barn painted to look like a house, kept our characters in constant peril until they got saved, and pulled in as many people as we could to be extras and walk-ons. By the time the movie premiered in the high school auditorium, at least a hundred folks came to see it because they were in it. The film was grainy and jerky. Sometimes our actors sounded like munchkins and sometimes they sounded like dopey giants talking through molasses. Sometimes the movie camera picked up the local radio station and we got music and news along with dialogue, but our show was a hit and we broke even. I don’t think the showing of the film won any souls to the Lord, but the making of it helped us get to know a lot of folks around town, and they all heard the gospel in the process.
The youth are grown up now and starting families of their own, but they fondly remember their brief and meaningful stint in the gospel movie biz, and I can’t think of any who are not serving the Lord today.
LORRAINE BRADLEY, Mrs. Framer, Libby Hiddle, Emily Kelmer, and all the wonderful ladies in the church who brought dinner over while Marian was sick. They had it all scheduled out, every day of the week. They cooked, they cleaned, they did our laundry, they helped me get Marian in and out of the car, they helped me get her to and from the hospital. . . .
MY COFFEE CUP was cold and empty. I was staring at it, wishing I could hide in it.
“You can stop,” said Morgan.
I had been enjoying the stories up to this point. “Okay.”
She touched the back of my hand. “Thank you.”
I shrugged. “You asked. I hope I delivered.”
“I loved it.”
I looked at my watch. “Man, is it that late?”
“Time flies.”
I pushed away from the table. “It’s been a great evening.”
“It’s been absolutely wonderful. Thank you.” She rose from her chair and I held her coat as she slipped into it.
“So anyway, I might be hearing from the Cathedral—that is, if they remember to call me—”
She held up her hand to stop me. “I don’t think that’s what this evening was about, do you?”
Maybe I was unwilling to explore it. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
She buttoned her coat as she looked up at me over her glasses. “All those people, Travis. They’re still with you, right in here.” She tapped on my heart. “When you go home tonight, don’t think about old what’s-his-name up at the Macon ranch. Think about them. They’re what the last fifteen years were all about. They’re what Jesus is all about. Old what’s-his-name can’t touch that.”
We came to the restaurant in separate cars and left the same way. All the way home I reflected on the evening, warmed and healed by Morgan Elliott’s discerning spirit, soothed by the acceptance I saw in her eyes. I had to wipe some tears away as I drove. I hadn’t felt this kind of kinship with anyone since Marian went home. Maybe we could have dinner again sometime. Maybe we wouldn’t need a particular reason.
Perhaps we could even go in the same car.
23
WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?” Florence Lynch had been cranky to begin with, but after waiting until past her bed time for a cop, any cop, to show up, she was beyond cranky and not to be trifled with.
Brett Henchle stepped through her front door and into her living room, nervous and agitated. “We had another incident across town—”
“Well what about my incident? You keep me waiting here all night . . .” Florence went to her dining room table and grabbed up the list she’d compiled. “I have it all right here. Two dresses, three hair combs, two bracelets, four blouses, and a pair of shoes.” She handed it to him and he looked it over with a certain detachment. “I caught her red-handed, in the very act. Did Rod tell you?”
“Uh, no . . .”
“She was trying to sneak out of my store with the Stoendegger— that’s the purple dress—” she pointed to the list in his hand—“this one right here. A hundred and twelve dollars retail. She was wearing it under her own dress, but I saw the hem sticking out. Rod and I went over to Penny’s house and—” She snuffed and rolled her eyes. “Have you ever smelled that place? The carpet’s woven marijuana! Has to be! And the clothes Bonnie Adams wears! No wonder Penny was stealing from my shop.”
“So that’s where you found the rest of this stuff?”
“In Penny’s closet and right on top of her dresser! Oh, Bonnie Adams had a fit, just screaming at Penny and slapping her around. But you know what? All Penny did was sit there and shrug and flip her hair out of her eyes. I don’t think she’s a bit sorry.”
“Well, I’m sure she is.”
“You’re sure she—what? You’ve got to be kidding! You’ve hauled her in before, several times! Rod told me!”
“Yes, but that was—”
“That’s why he jailed her. She can’t be trusted.”
“I’d still like to talk to her. Penny’s not a bad girl at heart. If she spends some time in the jail this evening and gets a good talking to, we may not have any more trouble from her.”
She gawked at him. “You’re dreaming, right?”
“No, I’m—”
“Well, wake up. I’m pressing charges!”
It was easy to tell he didn’t like that news. “You’re asking for a lot of trouble, a lot of time, a hearing,
a trial—”
Perhaps he was hard of hearing. She said it slower and louder. “I’m pressing charges! You’re a police officer! Now see to it!”
He grabbed his leg and winced. “Did . . . did Rod get your statement?”
“Yes, he did. And he told me to write up this list of the stolen merchandise, so now you have it.”
He turned toward the door, and yes, he was definitely limping. “Well, I’ll get back to you in the morning.” He pulled a card from his pocket and scribbled a phone number on the back. “If you decide to change your mind you can call me at home.” He handed the card to her.
“That’s highly unlikely!” By now she was angry with him. “Penny Adams is a thief, she’s always been a thief, and this town needs to be rid of her once and for all.”
He answered with an edge in his voice, “Yes, ma’am,” and went out the door.
DON ANDERSON awoke from a restful sleep, disturbed by a strange, low hum he’d never heard in the house before. He raised his head from his pillow and listened. It sounded like a sixty-cycle hum, the same noise sometimes picked up by amplifiers and sound systems. Had he left something on?
He got out of bed, careful not to wake Angela, and went into the living room to check the stereo. It was off. The television was off. The fluorescent lights in the kitchen were off. The furnace wasn’t running.
He listened to the refrigerator. Wow! He could hear everything that compressor was doing: the whir of the motor, the high-pitched rushing of the Freon through the condenser. There was a sixty-cycle hum down in the middle of all that noise, but it wasn’t the hum he was after.
The Visitation Page 37
