Bonnie and I had developed a special set of cryptic symbols to communicate during staff meetings. Using these silly doodles, we would make commentary on, satirize, or even filet the different people participating in the meeting. For instance, when Bernard Coggins would drone on and on about something while no one listened, Bonnie would draw a horizontal line with a big hook on one end. It conjured up the image of a vaudeville stage manager giving the hook to a failing actor and yanking him off stage. When Dr. Jorgenson would start randomly eliminating agenda items or cutting people off prematurely, one of us would draw a golf tee to represent a pending tee time he was up against. When Harry Simpkins would get his mouth way ahead of his brain, we would draw a picture of a kicking leg or just write RLS. The key to our secret language was to stow away our laughs, then relive them over lunch several hours later. Kind of like retelling or quoting the funny lines from a favorite movie while standing about with your friends. Some things are just funnier the second or third time around.
But this week Bonnie missed the real fireworks. About twenty minutes after the secretaries and directors had been dismissed, Harry Simpkins and Bob Stevens got into a first-class row. Thurm once told me these two mixed it up pretty good at least two or three times a year.
Noticing earlier how unkempt and sleep-deprived Harry looked, I had written RLS on Bonnie’s notepad. Maybe his wife had decided to kick him back after all these years. An hour or so later, about halfway through Bob’s weekly budget/expense update, Harry erupted.
“Bob, my church debit card isn’t working again,” Harry huffed, obviously exasperated. “I waited in line twenty minutes yesterday to buy some choir music only to have my church debit card declined.”
“Well, you know why, don’t you?” Bob said with a smirk.
“No, Bob; why don’t you tell me,” Harry’s sarcasm, sharp and pointed. “By the way,” he said, turning to the other staff members, “is anyone else having problems with their church debit card?”
“No, Harry, they’re not,” Bob said curtly. “And the reason they’re not is because they follow the rules, unlike someone we all know and love.”
Harry’s face began to redden. “What are you talking about, Bob?”
“I’m talking about receipts and expense reports. You know, those pieces of paper you never bother to turn in?” His voice amping up with each word.
I sketched a small hammer on my agenda sheet. My father used to say that every toolbox has to have a hammer. Bob Stevens filled that role at First Church with no pretense. He hit hard and fast. Damage control would come later.
Harry stood up, leaning over the table toward Bob, waving his extra-large hands in the air. “I forget a receipt now and then, and you cut off my debit card without even telling me? Am I to understand that I was horribly embarrassed yesterday in front of about fifteen people, just so you could try to teach me some kind of obtuse lesson about your stupid procedures?!”
Harry was a big man, with big hands and a large mouth; physically, he could be extremely intimidating. Bob, on the other hand, was small in stature but tough as nails on the inside. And he would have none of Harry’s bravado. Not one bit.
Bob leaned back in his chair. “Harry, why don’t you just sit down and start following the rules, then we’ll see if we can get your card reactivated.”
Harry exploded. “Listen, Island Boy, I don’t take this kind crap from anybody!”
Dr. Jorgensen had endured enough. “Harry, sit down. I’m requesting that you two stay after the meeting and work out your little problem. Let’s move on. What is our next item on the agenda?”
“Our next agenda is our upcoming Spirit of Grace conference,” Tom Applebee answered, fighting back a smile.
“Well, that’s ironic,” someone mumbled. Instantly, the room broke into boisterous laughter, totally wiping away any leftover tension. Harry laughed the loudest, and even Bob Stevens attempted a smile.
A church staff is a lot like a nuclear family. There may be a lot of inherent stress, and even the occasional disagreement or two. But when all is said and done, mutual respect and purpose win out. And for the most part, everyone’s got everyone else’s back. True, even at First Church.
I met Bonnie for lunch at the Fourth Street hotdog stand. The weather was cool, but not cold. My mother would call it sweater weather. We ended up eating on a park bench on Main Street near the downtown mall. Following our new Wednesday tradition, we talked back through the facts and faux pas of the morning staff meeting. I gave her an animated play-by-play reconstruction of the Simpkins/Stevens brouhaha.
“I cannot believe that Harry called Bob Island Boy! Oh, that’s choice.” She took a swig on her straw.
“It’s the God’s honest truth. Just ask Thurm. He’ll confirm it.”
“You know, it’s amazing that Harry has kept his job all these years. If First Church were a pirate ship, any one of the other pirates would have already slit his throat.”
“Interesting choice of analogies—First Church as a pirate ship.” I smiled, “How far can we stretch that?”
“Let’s see,” Bonnie jumped right in. “Pirate ships usually have a captain with an inflated ego and well-developed sense of self-importance.”
“Oh, that’s good,” I said. “My turn. Okay, pirate ships are known for collecting and hoarding gold.”
“Oooh, that’s good too! Let me think . . . how about, pirates are always looking to build or commandeer bigger ships?” She winced a little.
“No, I get it. That works. How about this—the pirates had a captain named Black Beard, and we have a deacon named Black Toe.”
“Elmo!” she scolded abruptly. “Please, not that black toe stuff again.”
Bonnie didn’t share my enthusiasm for solving The Black Toe Enigma. I don’t know if it was a girl/guy thing or just a Bonnie/Elmo thing, but we didn’t see eye-to-eye on the subject. But what do you do? I wasn’t going to let my fascination with Old Frozen Foot hinder my relationship with Bonnie. On the other hand, I wasn’t going to let Bonnie’s indifference keep me from solving the puzzle. I just needed to be more careful not to cross the two streams.
“Bonnie, one more thing.” I put my arm around her waist as we walked back toward the church.
She smiled back at me. “Sure.”
“Please tell that loudmouth roommate of yours to be more discreet about you and me. I had to suffer through some rather personal interrogations about our relationship from both my seminary advisor and his fruity student assistant.”
“Oh, Elmo, I’m sorry.”
“No, no, I’m not upset. And it’s not your fault. Just tell Peg to cease-and-desist, or I might be forced to put her on The Rack of Pain.”
“As you—”
I kissed her before she could finish as our Wednesday rendezvous came to a sweet close. La fin.
Jeremy Cantor wasn’t really active in our church or our Singles ministry, but he would show up on occasion. This had been his pattern for the last several years. Jeremy was different. He rarely smiled, but I wouldn’t say he was sad. Evidently he’d been deep into hallucinogenic drugs at one time, but as far as I knew, he’d beaten his addiction several years ago. That experience or something equally intense left a discernable hole in his personality. He was never a problem, but the church had a hard time ministering to him or even getting through to him. Yet he kept coming back. Probably just lonely.
Jeremy liked me. He told me I was different from most ministers he’d been around, like I wasn’t even a minister. I didn’t know if that were good or bad. From the first time I’d met Jeremy, I’d felt led to get to know him and give him a little extra attention. He always seemed a bit out of place but earnestly wanting to belong.
So when Tom Applebee asked me to visit Jeremy, I accepted the assignment without hesitation. Granted, I had a check in my spirit due to Tom’s unexpected warning, but I forged ahead anyway.
Jeremy had recently moved to the Lancashire Apartments which were located in a tra
nsitional part of the city. Probably not a good place to visit after dark, but in mid-afternoon, I didn’t think twice about it. I’d been there once before with Louis Estrada, so I knew right where he lived—Apartment 217 on the second floor.
I was still thinking about Harry and Bob’s tiff when I parked my car on the street and started making my way up the first flight of stairs. Approaching Jeremy’s door, I could hear some type of New Age music playing inside. If I had to venture a guess, I’d say that it was Yanni—not my personal favorite. I knocked firmly on the door twice. He immediately responded.
“It’s unlocked. Come on in.”
Opening the door, I turned a quick left, then a quick a right, and entered his living room. Jeremy appeared relaxed, sitting in the middle of his couch, leaning back with his legs crossed. He had on a suit and tie, which I found strange since all I’d ever seen him in were jeans.
“Hey Jeremy.”
He looked up. “Elmo. I’m glad it’s you they sent over. Grab a seat.”
I plopped down on the love seat. “What’s with the suit? Did you have a job interview or something?”
“No, I was at the funeral home.”
I sat up and leaned forward. “Did someone you know pass away?”
“Nah, I was just making arrangements.”
“For your parents or a relative?”
“No, my parents both died when I was quite young.”
“Then who—”
“I want you to have something,” he said, cutting me off. He reached under his coffee table and pulled out one of those enormous white family Bibles they give you at the funeral homes. The kind that’s so heavy you have to grab it with both hands. “I want you or the church to have this.” He slid it across his coffee table to me.
I paused. “Jeremy it’s beautiful, but I believe these are supposed to be kind of a family keepsake. To remind you of the person who died.”
“Yeah, I know.” He half smiled. “But I’m not gonna be needing it.”
That’s when I noticed it. On the couch beside Jeremy, a gun protruded out from under a throw pillow. A pistol of some kind. My heart stopped. I tried to force myself to stay calm, but I failed.
Jeremy looked genuinely concerned for me. “Elmo, what’s the matter?”
Having never been trained for this scenario, I wasn’t sure what to say. So I instinctively defaulted to being direct. “Jeremy, what’s the gun for?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately.”
“What kind of thinking?”
“You know, just thinking.”
I had no idea what his intentions were. I didn’t know if the gun were loaded. I didn’t know his psychiatric history. He seemed so totally relaxed, not stressed in the least.
“Have you ever done this type of thinking before?”
“Not really.”
“So, this is new thinking?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
I almost asked what triggered these thoughts, but I caught myself. “When did you start thinking this way?”
“Not too long ago.”
“Okay, why did you start thinking this way?”
“If I tell you, you’ll think it’s stupid.”
“Probably not. Try me.”
“It’s because of a girl.”
“No, that’s not stupid! Can you tell me what happened?”
“Well, we met at work. Her name is Gracie, and we really liked each other. I looked forward to seeing her every day. And then one day she was gone.” Jeremy started to tear up, then he started to sob.
“Where did she go?”
“I don’t know,” he said between sobs.
I hurt for Jeremy. It was heartbreaking, and I didn’t know what to say. So we just sat there in silence as he cried quietly.
A few moments later I heard the front door open, and in rushed a middle-aged woman I’d never seen before, followed close behind by Tom Applebee. I let out a sigh of relief. The women sat down on the couch next to Jeremy and gave him a big hug. He melted in her arms. I quickly reached across the coffee table and snatched the gun from under the pillow. I stood up and handed it to Tom Applebee, my hand shaking uncontrollably.
Later, out on the sidewalk, Tom and I pieced together what had happened. Tom put his hand on my shoulder. “Elmo, I am so very sorry about sending you into that situation alone. I should’ve known better, but I let myself get distracted by a church staff issue this morning and didn’t fully think through my decision.”
“Was the gun loaded?” I asked flatly, swallowing hard.
“No.”
Taking a deep breath, I released the air slowly. “How did you know to come over when you did?”
“That lady is Jeremy’s older sister. She raised him. The funeral home director called her and said Jeremy had just stopped by to ask about buying a cemetery plot. He’d listed his sister as the next-of-kin on the application, so they had her number. She was concerned and called the church. We got here as quickly as we could. Fortunately, it looks like you had it under control.”
“Nothing could be further from the truth. I’m just seriously thanking the Lord I didn’t witness a suicide . . . or get shot myself. I’ll definitely have to go home and change my boxers before tonight’s service.”
Tom smiled. “Take the night off, Elmo. Tomorrow too.”
“Thanks, Tom. I’ll take you up on tonight, but tomorrow is my golf outing with the Pastor and Mr. Fitzsimons. After this, tomorrow should be a cakewalk.”
“You’re probably right. Then we’ll see you Friday.”
The Echelon Country Club
Enjoying an absolutely gorgeous fall morning, I leaned against the trunk of my car waiting for Dr. Jorgensen to arrive. Eighteen holes of golf were just what I needed to clear my head after yesterday’s traumatic event. And getting to play at the Echelon Country Club—icing on the cake.
Dr. Jorgensen was never early, but he was also never late. I found it uncanny. So at 8:00 right on the nose, his silver Lexus SE rolled into the staff parking lot.
The tinted window on his driver side slowly rolled down. “Good morning, Jenkins. Just throw your clubs in the trunk.” The trunk slowly opened on his cue.
I loaded my clubs as instructed and shut the trunk, then ran around and hopped in the passenger side of his car. “Thank you, sir, for this invitation. This is a real treat for a lowly church intern.”
“I’m glad you could come,” he said as he patted me on the shoulder. “This course is a real treat for anyone who can manage to get on it. If it weren’t for Smitty, even with everyone I know in this town, I wouldn’t be able to play there. It’s very exclusive.”
“Man, that is exclusive. Uber-exclusive.” I laughed. “Thank you, again.”
“You’re welcome, but you should really thank Smitty. He’s picking up the tab for both of us.” He pulled out onto Main Street and headed east. “Tom Applebee tells me you had quite an experience with Jeremy Cantor yesterday afternoon. He said considering the situation, you handled yourself very well.”
“Whew,” I exhaled, shaking my head. “Definitely a learning experience. God was gracious, and what a relief that Tom got there when he did. What will happen to Jeremy?”
“His sister checked him into the psychiatric ward at St. Michael’s Hospital. They’ll evaluate him for a few days, then he’ll probably move in with her for a while and start regular counseling. I would also suspect they’ll set him up on some type of ongoing medication.”
I buckled my seatbelt. “I got the impression that whole scenario yesterday was caused by the sudden loss of his girlfriend at work.”
“Unfortunately that’s not the real story.” He continued. “The girl at work had recently been transferred to a different department at a different location because she’d filed a harassment complaint against Jeremy. There was no relationship, except in his mind. It’s really a very sad situation.”
“Well, it was obviously very real to him. I feel
for him. Have you seen this type of thing before? You know—guns, potential suicide, that kind of thing?”
“Anyone who’s in full-time ministry for any length of time will have his share of those touch-and-go situations. It can’t be avoided. There are a lot of needy people out there, and sometimes they just don’t know how to deal with their feelings.
“We have a couple in our church right now, super people. I’ll call them John and Betty. I consider them friends. John is a dry alcoholic, hadn’t had a drinking problem in over twenty years. Last summer, I got a call from Betty asking me to come over ASAP. She said John had a slip-up and they were in a big fight, and she needed me to help with him. So I hustled over there and found them screaming at each other. John was very inebriated. I got them to sit down and stop the yelling, then I tried to get to the bottom of the problem. After about five minutes, things seemed to be calming down when all of a sudden John pulled out a double barrel shotgun from under the couch. First he pointed it at Betty and then at me, and back and forth for what seemed like an hour of pure panic. Finally, their precious eight-year-old daughter, who was awakened by the commotion, came out of her room and said, ‘Daddy, what’s going on?’ John took one look at his daughter, put down the gun and said, ‘Pastor, I’m so sorry.’ The good news is, Betty forgave him, he got back into an AA group, recommitted his life to God, and they turned it around. As far as I know, he hasn’t had a single relapse since.”
“Were you afraid?” I asked.
“You bet I was afraid! I sat there praying and re-confessing every sin I could remember. I mentally put my house in order and started trying to wrap my brain around the idea that this could be my last day on Earth. But I also had the assurance that no matter what happened, my future was secure in God’s hands. That’s one big advantage we have over non-believers—we know the future is secure no matter what happens to our bodies. Understanding that simple fact makes situations like the one both you and I went through more manageable.” He paused for a long moment. “But don’t be too concerned about it, Jenkins. Those types of scenarios are really quite rare.”
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