The Terror Trap (Department Z Book 7)

by John Creasey

  But something begins to happen in the little church at the end of the road that is far beyond our doing on a human level. In spite of our naiveté, God goes to work. Word spreads around town and in small neighboring communities that there is a young preacher they should go hear at the local church. We are told later that even customers in the area’s bars and taverns are talking it up and many leave their drinks to come listen to this young stranger preach God’s Word. When an invitation to come forward and receive Christ is given, people drop on their knees to repent of sin and begin a new life in Christ. Dixie and I are amazed and excited. It is all new and wonderful. At the same time, I am dying a little every day, having to come up with something new to preach the next night.

  Toward the end of the second week the pastor stands and, without discussing it with me first, asks the good folk filling the church by now how many would like to go on for a third week of meetings. The response is overwhelming. The die is cast! Eight more sermons! And I am back on my knees praying and studying and hoping I can make it to the end. It was great, really, and I am still grateful to the good folk in Marblemount for loving us and giving us an opportunity to launch our public ministry there.

  Not every place we go is as successful. There are times when I wonder if anything I say is making a difference. I remember preaching in one small town over Easter weekend when the pastor of the church actually goes somewhere else that Sunday and leaves me with his little flock. I want to go wherever he went because his flock wasn’t so much. Rain pours down day and night and mud is everywhere. I can’t really blame people for staying home. I wouldn’t go out if I didn’t have to. There are nights when all I have to preach to are the pastor and his wife, the lady in whose home we are staying, Dixie, our baby daughter and me. These are tough and humbling days.

  We are at the mercy of other people’s generosity, living in the homes of friends and of total strangers, eating their food and following their schedules. Dixie never complains, but I know we are not built to sustain this kind of life.

  Eastern Washington. It is cold and foggy, very dreary weather. Winter is here for certain. We’ve been at this for almost a year now. God continues to provide miraculously for our needs. Saturday, when we left sis’s home, we possessed a little over one dollar. Before we arrived in Kittitas to begin our next meetings, God had given us $40 more. Surely his hand must be upon our lives for some special purpose. ~ WT diary, December 1959

  It is getting much harder for Dixie to travel. While grit keeps her going, her nerves are near to giving way. We believe God is directing us out of the evangelistic field, but do not know where or what he would have us do. Earlier in the year we receive a one hundred percent vote from a congregation in South Dakota to be their new pastor. As much as the idea of settling down is appealing, we don’t feel right in accepting. So we take a pass and continue on for almost another entire year. As it turns out, that church gave us the only one hundred percent vote we ever received.

  Therefore I tell you, do not be anxious about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, nor about your body, what you will put on. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? And which of you by being anxious can add a single hour to his span of life?

  And why are you anxious about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which today is alive and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you, O you of little faith?

  Therefore do not be anxious, saying, “What shall we eat?” or “What shall we drink?” or “What shall we wear?” For the Gentiles seek after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them all. But seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added to you.

  Therefore do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble. ~ Matthew 6:25–34

  The Scripture that sustained and informed me during those months was Matthew 6. Our first pay was an offering given to us just as it was collected, in cash. I recall pouring it out on the bed and counting how much we had earned for the week. It totaled $28.00. That needed to stretch for gas in the car, baby food, and any other baby essentials. I waited for Ward to leave the room to cry. It still amazes us how all our essential needs were met during that stressful time. God was teaching us to look to Him as our Provider. A truth that is etched in our hearts.

  We were always housed and fed in the homes of others during those eighteen months of our evangelistic ministry. Michele learned to crawl and walk in the varied homes of others; some clean, others not so much. Looking back through time’s rear view mirror, I’m sure I offended many homemakers by scrubbing their floors before letting Michele’s knees or feet touch down. ~ DLT diary, 2015

  We talk about what might be next. It seems to be one of two things—either back to Western Evangelical Seminary to finish the training we started over a year ago, or to some pastorate that has yet to open up. We pray God will do what he has promised, namely, open doors where there are no doors. And then one Monday in December the Lord impresses upon both of us at different times in the day what he would have us do. When we come together to talk about it, we are agreed. God is preparing us to begin a new phase of ministry. We are going to be pastors and it will be soon. We just don’t know where or when. But soon.

  We begin to pray for God to not only prepare our hearts to meet the challenge of pastoral ministry, but to prepare those we are to going to serve to receive us with open hearts. If only God will allow us to reach at least one entire community with the gospel message, what more could we ask?

  We conclude a fourth week of meetings in Medical Lake Washington, on a high note. It seems God has done a good work in the hearts of the people here. Then early in 1960, two specific opportunities come simultaneously during this season of new beginnings.

  First, the pastor in a well-established congregation in Spokane invites me to be his associate pastor, with an emphasis on working among the youth. At the same time, a small congregation situated in the farthest west incorporated community in America’s lower forty-eight states invites us to present as candidates for pastor.

  The city is bigger and the salary better in Spokane. The other community is much smaller and remote, sixty miles in one direction to Port Angeles, and more than a hundred miles in the other direction to Hoquiam/Aberdeen. When asked later why we chose one over the other, the bottom line? I knew I needed more experience as a preacher and pastor. Together, we felt the Lord leading in that direction and so we chose one “what if” over the other.

  Nothing is ever easy. The February tryout weekend is insane. Saturday evening, we celebrate my cousin’s wedding. I sing, I think it was four songs during the ceremony. After the wedding, we drive for hours through a mountain snowstorm, arriving in Seattle at 2:30 in the morning. We sleep for a couple of hours in a cheap motel.

  Leaving the room at 5:30, we arrive at the Edmonds/Kingston dock, just as the ferry is pulling away, forcing us to double back into Seattle to catch the Seattle/Winslow ferry. Next it is the Hood Canal Ferry, followed by driving around Lake Crescent a couple of hours later, Michele becomes carsick, throwing up all over herself, her mother and the car seat. By the time we get to Forks we are an hour late and smell terrible. I preach three times that day. We return home on Monday.

  Miracle of miracles, on 29 February, Earl Hamilton, secretary of the board, calls from Forks to tell us the church has voted us in as their new pastor. We are elated.

  16

  The Restless Years

  Michele was eighteen months old when the call came from Forks Washington, inviting us to consider serving the local church as pastor. The scrutiny was intens
e. Ward was a gifted speaker, Michele was a charming toddler and I was a big question mark.

  It was 1960. Jackie Kennedy had influenced the fashion world with her pillbox hats and sophisticated style. Having learned to sew my own clothes out of necessity from weight loss during the evangelistic months, I tried to conform to the Jackie Kennedy “look.” This did not impress the women of this isolated logging community. One woman said later: “I wasn’t going to vote for you, but you looked okay when you came without your hat to the evening service. That’s when I decided to vote FOR you.”

  The scrutiny didn’t lessen much as the years stretched to almost five and half. Make-up, skirt lengths, child discipline, housekeeping, serving others, all were evaluated. It felt like I ended up in the minus column most of the time. ~ DLT diary, 2015

  While a pastor in Forks, I learn to hunt and fish. Well, sort of, because that is what you do if you are going to be a real Olympic Peninsula man, living in Forks and the beautiful surrounding rainforests. I thought I liked to fish until I discover how seasick one can get in small boats on the Pacific Ocean. I shoot my first deer and kill two more with my car on U.S. Highway 101, the road running through our town.

  No one plays golf or tennis in Forks. In a locale where it rains 144 inches each year, these kinds of sports are not a high priority. There is a community softball team and I pitch for them in pick-up games. I am involved in community affairs and with the city council. The congregation grows and we build a new auditorium for worship, with more classrooms beneath. The Congregational Church is periodically without a pastor and I fill in with their weddings and funerals whenever needed.

  We love the kids and spend lots of time with them. Actually, we aren’t that much older than the teenagers in our church. I celebrated my twenty-third birthday a few days before beginning our ministry here. Much of our time is involved in working with the children and young people of our church and community. I also speak at youth rallies and retreats throughout the western part of the state and we assist in Fort Flagler children and youth camps where our young people attend each summer. It is good fun since several pastor couples living on the Peninsula are also involved, the result being camaraderie for this isolated couple.

  In 1960, I sell my first article to Pulpit magazine. At 10 cents a word, who could help but take writing seriously.

  The following year, I join other pastor/youth leaders, driving round trip to Springfield, Missouri and a National Youth Directors Conference. It is my first taste of a ministry that will one day be a full-time role for me.

  On 27 April 1961, I am formally ordained into Christian ministry. It is a thrilling and moving experience. After more than two years of active ministry involvement, I listen attentively as RJ Carlson, the district superintendent, preaches at Stone Church in Yakima, Washington. His text is from John 15:16, “I have chosen you and ordained you . . . ”

  As the presbytery move down the line of candidates for ordination, I feel a growing awareness of Christ’s presence. Kneeling when my name is called, I give my Bible to the superintendent. I am shaking with emotion as dear old Brother Gray, one of the earliest district superintendents and a pastor for many years in Tacoma, lays his hands on me and prays. A public confirmation of God’s calling. An experience I shall never forget.

  A cherished gift arrived in our family during our time in Forks. Stephen Wesley was born on 25 August 1961. It was exciting for the congregation to have a baby in the parsonage. Everyone adored Michele who had charmed her way into the hearts of most. Grandfathers carried candy in their pockets to dole out to her every Sunday. She knew exactly who they were.

  Stephen was a happy child who was both verbal and outgoing. We always had people who were willing to babysit for us when duty called, as it did frequently. The teenagers in the church became a focus for our time and energy. We drove them countless miles in an old school bus to camps and youth rallies as well as on trips to the beach. Some of our teen babysitters then, grandmothers now, still keep in touch.

  These were struggle years for me in almost every way. I felt inadequate for the role as “pastor’s wife.” Having never lived in a small town, I did not understand the ways and priorities of the congregation. The weather was also daunting for this Oklahoma dry-land girl. The rainfall each year left thick mildew on windowsills and walls behind pictures and in closets. I was miserable.

  Ward’s priorities and energies were expended on “the church.” I was mentally, emotionally and spiritually slugging through 144 inches of pure mud. ~ DLT diary, 2015

  These are not easy years, a time in which we learn in real life the truth of Pierre Teilhard de Chardin’s words, “My self is given to me far more than it is formed by me.” These are restless years. A season of growing spiritually, in life experience, and in the development of pastoral skills, gifts and wisdom. We are so young, but most people are good and patient with us. We grow together.

  However, it is an especially difficult season for Dixie, given her background. Here she is the brunt of criticism that is pretty much a weekly experience. Being a woman who is often a prime target of conversation among women of the church is hard. It is not the life she signed up for.

  One woman in particular makes it her mission to come to our home before 9 o’clock every Monday morning, staying until noon to recite what she has allegedly overheard in conversations among women on the previous Sunday. Your skirts are too short. Others agree. Too much makeup. This is not the big city, you know. You are too lenient with your children. You’ll learn. You are too this or too that. I knew you’d want to know. I don’t want my girls to turn out like you.

  Being young and inexperienced, Dixie takes it on the chin, but after the woman is gone she often weeps alone. Finally, one day I step up (something I should have done long before) and tell the woman where she can take her weekly critiques. She leaves crying and I feel good for having caused her tears. For a while.

  It’s not long before I recognize the mistake I’ve made. I had done what needed to be done all right, but in anger, not in tough love. And so I call and make an appointment to apologize. I can still see her standing there in her home, with husband and her several children gathered around her so as not to miss anything, while I apologize for having lashed out in anger. It is a lesson in humility that has served me well. Obviously, I have not forgotten it these many years later.

  There are times of crises to get through as a church family. I shepherd church families during the trauma of President Kennedy’s assassination. We celebrate births. We mourn over deaths. My first wedding is conducted in a home on the Lapush Indian reservation.

  I become immersed in my first building program as we expand the classrooms and erect a new sanctuary. I do all the electrical conduit, the wiring, heat relay systems, lighting, everything electrical, with the oversight of a local electrician. Since I’ve never done anything like this before, it is nothing short of an act of God.

  I work at preparing sermons and bible studies, conducting weddings and funerals, doing visitation. With me being so consumed by the church in this way, I’m guilty of neglecting my wife and children. Finally overcome by what life is giving her, Dixie reaches her limit, packs her bag and the children into our car and leaves.

  But where can she go? Oklahoma by herself with two small children is out of the question. Options are few. She eventually arrives across state at her in-laws’ home. My mother is smart enough to know there is a problem and wise enough not to ask for details.

  The next morning, she simply says, “Dixie, if you want to go to the church and pray, I will watch the children.” And so she does. The next day is the same. And the next, until two weeks have passed. It is a time of deep soul searching, of looking for her Father.

  Her father has disappointed, abused and abandoned her. Her mother’s personal pain and fears, her bitter disappointments, has made life grim for her on most levels. Dixie wonders, was she the reason for their brokenness? Now it’s happening all over again. The father of
her children is doing basically the same thing, abandoning her for the church. For God of all things! How does one stand up to that? She has tried everything she knows to be of worth and valued just for who she is. But all she feels is failure. Her dreams are dashed. Nothing works. She is at the bottom.

  The heavenly Father is her final solution. There is nothing else.

  The days pass slowly. I continue my work responsibilities, but my mind and heart are not in the daily tasks. I, too, am praying, searching my heart, feeling torn between the calling of God and my love of wife and children. I am racked with feelings of remorse and failure, caught in a web of my own making, excuses unraveling, guilt increasing, unsure of my next moves. It seems both God and my wife need and expect more from me than I am able to deliver. Will she be coming back? Is this the beginning of the end? What will it be like when she returns? How did I ever let things get so messed up? It’s all my fault, isn’t it?

  When she returns home, Dixie has changed. Both her countenance and attitude is different. We talk our way through tears. Now it is my turn to change. The relationship we once treasured more than anything has become frayed with the cares of life. My priorities are out of whack.

  Slowly, hearts that are wounded and fragile begin to mend and be strengthened by the repositioning of priorities, by making God, not just the church, our center; putting our life together truly and forever in his hands. Is it all well and wonderful after this? I would like to say, yes, but the truth is, no, not always. Like most married couples, especially I believe, those of us in ministry, we have other challenges to work through. Other times when priorities are again misplaced.

  Successful marriages are not easy. They do not just happen. But we continue to learn as we go, to pray and work as equal partners, to listen, to talk, to forgive, and most of all to love regardless. The end result is an extraordinary life together; life filled with love and many moments of sheer pleasure and delight in each other, resulting in an extraordinary marriage.