Elder Batty started counting on his fingers and when he added both knees to the count, he said, “Bea, I think we’ve sold about one hundred and fifty tickets with about two hundred more promised.”
From the end of the table, someone spoke up and offered a semblance of common sense. “We do remember the Seniors Prom is the Saturday after Thanksgiving, don’t we? That’s less than a month away. It won’t leave us much time.”
Everyone turned to face Trustee Freddie Noel. Until that moment, they’d not heard a peep from the tall, lemon yellow, skinny man with squinty brown eyes, and a sharp nose that looked like a carrot stick. Not only was he very tall, but extremely unattractive. In his mid-sixties, he was so thin, he’d almost had to pin his pants to his skin to keep them up.
“It’ll be enough time if we’re not distracted,” Elder Batty Brick replied. “So you can pencil that in your notes as a done deal.”
The trustee shuddered a bit. He knew that Elder Batty Brick had only mentioned the word pencil because behind his back folks called him “Number two,” saying he resembled a number two pencil with a chewed eraser.
“That reminds me,” Brother Casanova added, as he turned to Trustee Noel, “we haven’t assigned a job to you for that night.”
“Let him take the coats,” Bea snapped.
Bea always dismissed Trustee Noel because he didn’t fit what she looked for in a man, a congregation member, or a potential helpmate. He was too thin, too poor, and she didn’t think he could stand up to the job of giving her what she’d need. “Unless you’re bringing a date or plan on having any fun, I don’t think you’d mind taking the coats, would you?”
Before the trustee could respond Sasha added fuel to the fire, “He’s celibate. Everyone knows he ain’t never been married. I’ve never seen him dance and if he could, I’m certain he would. He ain’t trying to have fun.”
“Well, I’m certain he’ll celebrate when he’s no longer a celibate.” Somehow Elder Batty Brick thought he’d helped the reclusive trustee, especially when he added, “I’m sure he’s just waiting on a woman who’d have him.”
As usual, the trustee’s manhood always fed the gossip fire and if he wasn’t weird enough for their chatter, he had a bad habit. The trustee had a sprig of silver hair resembling a half moon that peeked out from the crown of his head. Whenever he was nervous, which was most of the time, he twirled that sprig. When they finished berating him, the top of his head looked like silver twigs.
They decided that Elder Batty Brick would collect the monies despite having once served time for embezzlement. Brother Casanova would DJ, even though he’d warned them about his hearing loss in one ear. He’d also supervise the hall decorations. Sasha would oversee the food and a possible senior date auction. Bea would print by hand all the T-shirts and secure the adult entertainment.
The way they figured, even though Reverend Tom authorized only five hundred dollars for the entire affair, they’d make it work and have money to spare. Still delusional, they ended in prayer.
Chapter 3
Sunday, the day after the Seniors Prom committee met, nothing much changed but the weather.
The howling winter winds came earlier than expected, screaming their blizzard warnings. Torrential rains pounded the ground, leaving muddy puddles in its wake. Of course, weather was always unpredictable as were life’s ups and downs. That was expected. What wasn’t, however, were the storms of life that could stop everything in its tracks.
That morning a tempest brewed inside the mind of Crossing Over Sanctuary’s Reverend Leotis Tom and there was no shelter other than prayer. Inside his modest town house bedroom, he lay awake with sadness in his eyes. He looked toward the ceiling and prayed. “Father God, my faith looks up to Thee. I know You will not abandon Your son . . .”
It was the same prayer he’d repeated for the past few days, seemingly more to convince himself than anything else. So that Sunday morning, rather than just lay there, the reverend slid from under the heavy dark comforter wrapped about his body like a cocoon. Looking into the bedroom mirror, he faced two startling facts that had caused him to lay awake and pray throughout much of the night before. One was that a terrible thunderstorm threatened to arrive soon and drench Pelzer and its surrounding areas. The other was when later that morning he announced that the church had a severe financial crisis, the congregation just might storm him, too. With Thanksgiving and Christmas coming in a few weeks, the announcement could not come at a worse time.
Reverend Tom turned his face to a nearby wall. “Lord, did I misunderstand? If I did, then why did You send Sister Betty as a witness to the vision three years ago?”
He had many questions for God. His community development vision project was in jeopardy. And where was his spiritual prayer warrior, Sister Betty?
Those were the same questions he’d asked God ever since he received unwelcome news from the Piece of Savings Bank a few weeks ago. The bank had called in its option to receive the balance of the monies owed for the church’s Promised Land development deal for the vacant ten acres across the highway from Crossing Over Sanctuary. If the church didn’t pay then it was legally liable to forfeit whatever monies had already been invested. All improvements made on the property would also be lost.
It took all the strength he had but eventually the reverend showered and dressed for that morning’s service. He opted for an off-the-rack suit rather than one tailor-made. He didn’t eat, not because he was fasting, but because he had no appetite for food, or for what he had to do.
In all the years he’d preached and shared God’s prophetic visions, neither his faith nor his reputation had ever taken such a hit. He’d not allowed it, especially in the wake of so many huge church scandals. He could only wonder where God’s favor was now that he needed it so badly.
Bad weather and howling winds matched the reverend’s mood for that Sunday’s morning service. The wind and violent rain pellets shook the church’s stained glass panes like a baby’s rattle and mocked the reverend’s heartfelt attempt at worship and praise.
He preached what he hoped was a powerful sermon from his prepared text, “Be Ye Anxious for Nothing.” He whipped the congregation into worship frenzy and prayed that the Holy Ghost would prepare them for the bad news. The congregation amened, praised, and shouted. Finally, when he thought the spiritual atmosphere was ready, he spread his arms wide and indicated the people should sit. He glanced over toward the Board of Trustees and the Finance Committee because several already knew what was about to happen. The men on the board nodded slightly, urging him to step into the furnace as Daniel had.
Flames of malcontent were about to singe the faith of the Reverend Leotis Tom and the church to its core.
He lifted a square collection box from among several props he’d earlier arranged on the pulpit lectern. Reverend Tom held the box in the air and asked, “Who among you still believe God cannot be confined to a small box, no matter how hard we’ve always tried to keep Him there?”
Like popcorn, hands shot up, the choir broke out singing, “Our God is An Awesome God,” and hallelujahs rang out in response.
He’d gotten the reaction he wanted. With a big grin and a false sense of returning peace, he started to walk peacock-proud, strutting back and forth across the front of the altar. “That’s what I’m talking about,” he said, as he raised an arm indicating the congregation should shut off their powerful affirmations.
“Well, for those whose faith wavers I guess I’m about to say what they’d call bad news.”
No sooner had he let the words bad news leave his mouth than it became so quiet the reverend swore he heard a fly land on a cotton ball. Heads nodded in his direction, mostly from the Board of Trustees and the Finance Committee; an indication he should hurry up and continue before he lost his edge and their waning support.
Reverend Tom’s smile stayed glued to his face as he continued to speak. “You know Satan can’t just get up any time he wants and mess with the people of
God. . . .”
Brother Leon Casanova, who’d slept through much of the service but didn’t think anyone noticed, jumped up with his fists in the air. He twirled them as though he were in a boxing ring, warming up. “That’s right, Satan. Mama said, ‘knock yo butt out!’ ”
Reverend Tom and most of the congregation broke into laughter, seeming to forget the bad news was still to come.
“Amen, Brother Casanova.” Reverend Tom turned off his laughter and replaced it with his signature defiant smile that looked more like a sneer. “Now when the Devil wanted to torment Job he had to get permission from God. In fact, not only did God give the Devil permission but it was He that first made the suggestion . . .”
“Quit stalling, Reverend,” a husky, angry voice broke out from the back of the sanctuary. “We already know that Job went through a whole lotta hell. So now what the heck are you trying to tell us? What’s this bad news?”
Whoever asked the question had kept their seat. It didn’t matter because the reverend couldn’t backtrack had he wanted to. That Job scriptural fact had the ears and the attention of the entire church. Even the usual chatterboxes seated on the we-come-every-so-often back pews shut their judgmental mouths as they stuffed their offering envelopes back into their pockets.
The half smile slid from the reverend’s face and his shoulders seemed to droop as he slowly began the awful truth.
“Several weeks ago, the Finance Committee, Church Board, and I received notice from the Piece of Savings Bank. The bank is calling in the loan. It appears that Crossing Over Sanctuary can’t cross over onto our Promised Land development deal as agreed. We’re broke.”
Although it took a few minutes for the revelation to sink in, it was more than enough time for all hell to break loose. And at that very moment, Hell was making its way off the hot seat and out of the second pew. Its small yet shrill voice cracking the already confused atmosphere was determined to have its say.
Mother Sasha Pray Onn wasn’t privy to the financial difficulty, yet heard the word broke and that got her all riled up. As small as she was, she became an unnatural force of nature all by itself, with rimless reading glasses that bounced upon her tiny button nose. With strength she didn’t know she had, those parentheses-shaped legs sprang into action.
“Hallelujah and thank you Lord, you saved me when you did!” Mother Sasha Pray Onn, Satan’s sometime right-hand gal and first cousin, screamed out.
She adjusted her latest set of dentures with a loud tongue click as she made her way off her seat and along the second row of red cushioned pews.
Never one to apologize or say, “Excuse me,” she used her ever-present walking cane to plow her way through the pew. She stopped at the end, snatched off a newly placed turkey paper figure, and tore the head off. Despite her proclamation of salvation a few seconds ago, she wasn’t about to hide her agitation and that turkey was only an example. When Mother Pray Onn wasn’t happy, wasn’t nobody happy. She stood with her legs slightly parted, at least in her mind, a few feet away from the reverend. With one hand on her tiny hip, she began to reprimand him with what thus saith Sasha, the false prophet-profiteer.
“I needed to get a little closer to you, Reverend Tom,” she began. “I was sitting over there in the nosebleed section of the second pew”—she used her cane to indicate the exact row she meant—“in the first seat on the far end, befitting my position as President of the Mothers Board. So I can’t always hear you correctly.”
That’s how she started. But then she continued with, “You must’ve lost your doggone mind if you think I’m gonna let you get away with squandering my year’s tithe of one hundred and forty dollars and twenty-six cents!
“I’m supposed to just shout on and give the Lord the glory anyhow? I’m supposed to dance a happy dance after you gambled and wasted my hard-earned social security money?”
Reverend Tom flinched as soon as the word gamble left the old woman’s mouth. He hated gambling and had preached against it from the day of his installation, and he knew she knew it. Nevertheless, that was not the moment for correction.
“Well, Mother Pray Onn—”
That was about as far as the reverend got when the first sounds of murmuring reached the pulpit floor. He looked toward the altar’s side pew but didn’t get much support from the Church Board or the Finance Committee. They all turned and looked back at him as though he were brand new.
Mother Pray Onn and her posse of backsliders viciously tore the reverend and his vision apart. There wasn’t a spirit left untarnished—holy or otherwise. He left the church wondering if God had ever called him to preach, or had he just shown up and volunteered. An hour after the church service ended he was lucky he still had Jesus on his side.
Later that afternoon, back in his home, the reverend pushed and rammed the iron poker into the hot coals as he stoked the fire in his fireplace. With every thrust, he cringed as he recalled what had gone down earlier.
The vision of the revolt caused him to snatch a bottle of blessed oil off the mantel and anoint his head with handfuls before he walked over and sank back onto his sofa. All he could do at that moment was reread the tattered pages of his Bible. He’d been foolish to rely on either the Church Board or the Financial Committee for support.
Reverend Tom felt he needed to read his Bible. It was his life’s puzzle solver. Yet even after reading practically all one hundred and fifty Psalms, he still felt uneasy. Whom could he call when he couldn’t get a prayer through? “Certainly not Ghostbusters,” he quipped.
Reverend Tom needed his prayer partner and adopted spiritual mother, Sister Betty. Two days ago, she’d left word that she’d gone to Belton, South Carolina, to “handle some personal business,” and he prayed she’d already returned.
He peeked out the side window to his garage. From there he could see the far side of Sister Betty’s house. The lit front porch light told him that she’d not returned. He went back to his den, called her, and left a message that she should contact him no matter what time she got home.
Chapter 4
It was well past midnight when the reverend’s phone rang. He’d hardly slept a wink but when he saw the number on the caller ID, he immediately woke up.
The reverend yawned and answered. “Hello, Sister Betty.”
“I’m sorry to call this late, Pastor,” she apologized. “This storm has made everything a mess. My bus ran late from Belton and when I got home, I was too pooped to do anything. I saw that red light flashing on my phone but didn’t bother to check it right away because nothing good ever comes out of me doing so.”
By the time Sister Betty finished her long apology and explained her adversity to checking her messages, the reverend was fully awake. He’d barely told her about the mess caused at the church by Mother Pray Onn, and his reaction to it, when Sister Betty started to whip him with the Word. She gave him scriptural uppercuts from the Old Testament, and then TKO’d him with scriptures from the New. When she finished he’d apologized more to her than he had to God.
“How is God gonna give you a vision and then not give you the provision?” Sister Betty hissed. “Now I don’t mean no further disrespect, but you are acting like you forgot that God gave me that same vision and it was about the same time He trusted you to bring it about.” She waited for the reverend to dispute what she said, but he didn’t. He couldn’t.
“Reverend Tom, now tell me we didn’t shout about it in your study when God showed us back then that there wasn’t gonna be a need for a mortgage? You can’t. And didn’t the good Lord say to name it the Promised Land? Now I already told you that I’m tired from this long trip and my body is sore. I ain’t got time to feed you Bible Similac like you a new babe in Christ. You’re the head of the church, and if the head don’t believe, then why would the body?”
Sister Betty went on to say a lot more as he held the receiver away from his ear. She captured his guilt when she mentioned that the body wouldn’t believe if the head didn’t.
&nb
sp; When he placed the receiver back against his ear, he heard her say, “If your faith ain’t increased by tomorrow when I go down to that bank, then don’t come with me. I may have a ton of money in that bank, but I can’t blackmail them with haters and faith blockers in my way.”
The next morning, Reverend Tom was exhausted. Sister Betty’s telephone rebuke had pushed sleep aside and given him a lot to ponder.
However, despite her rebuke, on Monday morning he couldn’t help but remember his history with her. As he read the morning paper, the thought of her brought a surprised smile to his face.
Sister Betty was one of his most senior members and had been a blessing to him ever since he took over as pastor. Her quirkiness was well known to some and a puzzle to most. As far as he was concerned, she was a woman who had God’s ear. He had also adopted her as his spiritual mother, especially since both of his parents passed away long before he had finished college, and she was always telling him what to do anyhow.
She also watched his back. The desires of several unmarried females at the church had looked to add the title of First Lady to their letterhead and bank accounts. Moreover and sadly, there were also a few married women who would have made an exception to their marriage vows, had he given them a reason.
Through the good and the bad, Sister Betty had never left his side. She made certain he knew that God had not left either.
Before he knew it, it was around noon and time to pick up Sister Betty.
As he drove out of his driveway, Reverend Tom whispered an affirmation. “God in heaven, forgive me for my unbelief and my unmerited pride in what you’ve placed in my hands. But Lord, all days are your days, too. Now, if Moses didn’t let the Red Sea stop him from helping his people, I’m not about to let the threat of a lack of current finances or a congregation of unbelievers stop me from helping mine.”
Reverend Tom slowly pulled into the winding driveway of Sister Betty’s luxurious home. Before he could step from the car, she stepped outside to meet him.
No Ordinary Noel Page 2
