Ordained Irreverence

by McMillian Moody

  1954 – One artifact.

  1958 – Fred Snooker becomes the First Church Associate Pastor.

  1959 – One artifact.

  1964 – Two artifacts.

  1975 – One artifact.

  * Four artifacts discovered after 1975, but all were dated pre-1975. This includes the gum wrapper I found in my closet office dated 1959.

  Pastor Snooker leaned back in his chair sipping his coffee. “Honestly, Elmo, I’m impressed. This had to take some time to compile.”

  “A little, but it helps me better understand the whole picture. There are some interesting conclusions we can draw just from this timeline. For instance, if this anonymous church member were twenty years old when he got caught in the blizzard with Wiley Smith, and he died in 1975—the last year on the TBT timeline—he would’ve been ninety-seven years old when he died. When you first told me about The Black Toe Enigma, I assumed it had to involve more than one person, based on the time span. This timeline has proven that assumption wrong.

  “I checked the First Church funeral records for 1975. The pastoral staff performed eighty-nine local funerals that year, sixty-seven of them for First Church members. Out of these sixty-seven dead members, thirty-two were men. Of these thirty-two men, six were over the age of ninety-five. Four of the six were life-long First Church members, and three of them had been deacons.”

  I showed him my notes on the three deacons.

  1. Randolph Hitchcock who died at the age of ninety-nine.

  2. Snuffy Newton who died at the age of ninety-eight.

  3. And William Sinclair Jr. who died at the age of ninety-eight.

  “If I were a betting man, which I’m not, I would bet that old black toe belonged to one of these three fellas.”

  Pastor Snooker smiled. “Son, you’re in the wrong line of work. You have plumb missed your calling. You should be in forensics. I can see it now: Elmo Jenkins CSI.” He started laughing so hard I feared he was going to cough up his pacemaker.

  “Pastor Snooker,” I said, calmly patting him on the shoulder while nodding assurances to the other startled coffee drinkers. Yes, we’ve got it under control. “It’s really not cool to be too rowdy in a Starbucks. It breaks the accepted decorum. Pretend we’re in a library.”

  He wiped his eyes. “Sorry. What exactly do they put in this coffee?”

  Uh oh. “Did you order any extras?”

  “Well, the kid with the nose ring suggested espresso, so I said, ‘Give me a double.’”

  Now I really was worried about his pacemaker. “I tell you what; why don’t you just let me have your Venti cup there, and I’ll get you a glass of water. Just sit tight and think about your Happy Place for a few moments. I’ll be right back.”

  “Excuse me,” I said to the kid behind the counter with the nose ring. “Could I get a glass of water?”

  “No problem.”

  “By the way, why did you give that old guy over there two hits of espresso?”

  “That’s easy. He said for five dollars he wanted a bang for his buck.”

  I grabbed the glass of water. “Thanks, just be ready to call 911 if I give you the signal.” I walked the water back over to Pastor Snooker.

  “Archives Officer Lieutenant Fred Snooker, can you hear me?”

  Pastor Snooker shook his head. “What did you say?” He took a big gulp of water.

  “I said, how are you feeling?” I sat back down at the table.

  “The water is helping, thank you. Where are—I mean, where were we?

  “We can do this some other time if—”

  “No, no,” he stopped me. “I’m fine. Sorry for the outburst. Some coffee. I’m just going to stick with the water if that’s all right.” He paused for a couple of deep breaths. “Okay, let’s continue. What other conclusions have you drawn from your research?”

  “Well, there’s one small problem with my lone shooter theory. I’m no expert, but it appears to me that the handwriting on the various artifacts changed over time. As if they were written by two, maybe three different people. It’s really hard to be certain, because many of the older samples have degraded pretty badly. I also factored in the possibility that if it were just one perpetrator, his handwriting could feasibly change as he aged.”

  “Well, again I’m impressed. You’re using a more technical strategy than I did. I spent more time trying to decipher the cryptic messages on the artifacts.”

  I sat up in my chair. “So you must have assumed that the legend was true, and you were just trying to find out whom the person was?”

  “Yes, but more than that, I was trying to figure out the why and the what. Why the subterfuge, and what did it all mean? I struck out on both questions, so after a couple of years it became more of a hobby just to see if any more artifacts could be found. Basically, a glorified Easter egg hunt.”

  “Thank you, sir. That’s what I’ll do next. I’ll list all the artifact messages then cross reference them to check for common words or verses, and see if it leads to anything.” I shoved all my notes back into the TBT folder.

  Pastor Snooker downed what was left of his water. “Elmo, I think it’s great that you’ve taken an interest in The Black Toe Enigma. But don’t let it consume you, and don’t spend an inordinate amount of time working on it. Remember, the main reason you’re here at First Church is to learn about ministry.”

  We got up and walked toward the exit.

  “Oh, I know,” I said. “I think I have everything in its proper perspective. I just love solving puzzles. It keeps my mind sharp. Listen, I think you’d better let me drive you back over to the church. I’d hate for you to get a ticket for driving under the influence of strong coffee.”

  We were both laughing as he held the door open for me. That is until he hurled on my shoes.

  Not cool.

  My watch read 12:15. I know I told Bonnie noon at Chili’s.

  Certain scenarios in life are full of lousy moments. One of these occurs when you’re meeting someone for a meal, but they don’t show. It almost always goes down like this. You bust your tail to get there at the agreed-upon time. The restaurant is starting to get crowded, so you make the stupid decision to go ahead and get a table. When the waitress comes by, you explain that you’re waiting for someone. You go ahead and order your beverage, but ask to wait on your food order until the slowpoke shows up. It’s immediately awkward as you sit there alone nursing a sweet tea, while watching everyone else in the now-full restaurant enjoying a great time with their dinner mates. Then you start to second-guess yourself. Am I at the right place? Did I get the time wrong? Is this the wrong day?

  The waitress comes by again, and you plead for more time knowing she wants to turn the table. Then you start getting that sick feeling. Did the other person forget? (Always a big self-esteem kick in the head.) You dread calling to remind the person because then they’ll get embarrassed, and it all gets even more awkward.

  Then you get mad. Why don’t folks write things down? It’s downright inconsiderate! Now you’re hungry, but eating alone sucks. But you’ve tied up this poor waitress’s table for too long, so you order something to go, double-tipping out of guilt, then eat in your car. The rest of your day is basically screwed on several levels. You still haven’t accomplished whatever you were getting together for in the first place. So it’ll have to be rescheduled, risking a repeat of the trauma. You now have unresolved bad feelings and trust issues with the other person. They’re embarrassed and end up apologizing too much, which makes you feel like a jerk.

  You get the idea.

  So there I was, sitting on the precipice of the aforementioned scenario. And I was not happy about it. I tried Bonnie’s cell phone. No answer. I tried her office. She wasn’t there. The people in the restaurant lobby waiting for a table were giving me the evil eye. Fuming, I contemplated leaving. Twenty minutes later, Bonnie finally arrived. Preparing to lower the boom, I took one look as her sweet smile and decided to let it go. Oh, the restraint of
a saint! After all, I desperately needed her help on this skit project, and if we were to get into a fight, I would most assuredly end up doing it solo.

  “Elmo, I’m so sorry!” She slid into the other side of the booth. “I got ambushed by Erlene Markham in the church parking lot and had trouble extricating myself from her grasp.”

  I smiled. “Oh, I know that pain.”

  Bonnie laughed. “She told me this story about these ancient Greek virility statues that had moving—”

  “Stop right there!” I put my hand over her mouth. “I’ve already had to sneak down the street to the confessional booth at the Catholic church to purge myself of the guilt I carried due to one of her stories. One more of her sordid tales and I’ll have to start carrying rosary beads.”

  She carefully removed my hand from her face. “Hope you washed your hands.”

  “I always wash my hands. By the way, I tried your cell phone two or three times, but got no answer.”

  “The battery is dead.” She hung her head in mock shame. “Sorry again.”

  “Okay, I’m over it. Let’s move on. Did you bring the skit books?”

  “I did.”

  “I’m starving, so let’s order then get right to it.”

  “You go ahead. I just want a Coke.”

  “What, and skip the world-famous Southwest Egg Rolls?!” I didn’t believe her.

  “The students from the pastry college brought by samples of their goodies to the church office, and I’ve been nibbling all morning.”

  She then proceeded to describe to me in careful detail each of the specialty pastries. Bonnie expresses herself well, but when she talks about food, she takes it to another level. Whereas in normal conversation her hands play a minor role, when she describes different dishes of food, her hands take over—outlining shapes, sizes, and illustrating textures. It’s an endearing quirk I’ve unofficially labeled Food Hands. And the best part is she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.

  BAM! My egg rolls arrived, saving me from any further culinary play-by-play descriptions. While I inhaled my lunch, Bonnie flipped through the Whispering Creek skit books.

  “Here’s a possibility,” she said, placing the open book on the table. “It’s about Peter, James and John arguing with each other. They’ve borrowed Jesus’s car but lost his car keys, and they’re frantically trying to find them, all the while blaming each other for losing the keys. Looks like a humorous take-off on the New Testament story about the keys to the kingdom. It ends with them finding the keys and the narrator saying ‘They all drove off in one accord.’ What did you think?”

  “I think it sucks on about three different levels, not the least of which it ends with an old and overused preacher’s joke. Besides, we need something to involve more singles and both genders. Next.”

  “Okay, Mr. Spielberg. How’s this one about a church camping trip? The title is It’s Not All About Me. It calls for a cast of twelve, both men and women. The synopsis states: ‘Twelve selfish church members start out on a weekend camping trip, each looking out only for themselves. Fighting for the best seats on the bus, hoarding the snacks, using all the hot water, etc. But they’re all drawn together by some humorous adversity. By the end of the skit, they’ve learned to serve each other.’”

  “Now that sounds promising. Do you mind if I take a sip of your Coke? My glass has been empty for at least ten minutes. I think our waitress must be off molting somewhere.”

  Bonnie handed her glass to me and closed the skit book. “Looks as if you’ll need two male and two female leads. The others are all extras with just a line or two.”

  “Perfect,” I said before I drained her glass. “Why don’t you schedule the Fellowship Hall for us on Sunday afternoon for our first practice—say 4:00? Also put together a flyer to hand out to the Young Singles Department Sunday morning, then we’ll get the ball rolling on this thing.”

  “Anything else, mein Führer?”

  “That was harsh.”

  “No, this is harsh.” She reached across the table and snatched my last egg roll. Two quick bites, and it was gone.

  “Dang.”

  The All-Nighter

  Coffee at Starbucks, egg rolls at Chili’s, but I had saved the best for last—Wednesday Night Family Suppers at First Church featuring Martha’s homemade yeast rolls. The bread of the angels. Martha Ross had been the First Church cook for over fifty years, but she didn’t look a day over fifty. Only five feet tall, she ran the church kitchen with an iron fist, yet somehow managed to be very warm and friendly. A true kitchen matriarch, if you will. She was known city-wide for her delectable yeast rolls.

  I’d figured out the perfect strategy for Family Night Suppers, arriving about ten minutes before the serving lines closed down. When the kitchen closed, Martha would make the rounds handing out any leftover rolls. Everything she cooked was delicious, but her rolls were simply manna from heaven.

  I found Thurm sitting alone finishing his meal. “Hey, Thurm. Got room for one more?”

  He scanned the six other empty chairs at his table. “Sure, Elmo. For you, we’ll make room.”

  He looked tired.

  Setting my tray on the table, I sat down. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something for some time now. You’re the only Thurman I’ve ever met. How’d you come by that name? Was it your father’s?”

  “No, my dad’s name was Earl. Everyone called him Big Earl. That is until he died of cancer a few years back. He was a good guy.”

  “So where did the inspiration for the name Thurman come from?”

  “Big Earl was a huge lifelong New York Yankee’s fan, and Thurman Munson was one of his favorite players.”

  “The guy who died in the plane crash?”

  Thurm popped one of Martha’s rolls into his mouth. “My dad cried like a baby when that happened. Absolutely heartbroken. It was a sad day around the Wilson house.”

  “Speaking of sadness, you look pretty low.” I patted him on the shoulder.

  Thurm hung his head. “Things have hit a low point with Alise. In fact, we officially broke up. Indefinitely. Chalk one up for male stupidity.”

  “What’s the deal?”

  “There’s no deal. It’s game over. I’m a free man, even though I don’t want to be.”

  “Give it some time. She’ll come back around, you’ll see. You’re one of a kind.” He looked as if he were drowning, so I changed the subject. “What’s the agenda for the big middle school all-nighter this Friday?”

  “We start at 10:00 p.m. with some games in the Youth Room. Then at midnight, we’ll have all the pizza they can eat followed by a two-hour movie. Then it’s free time up on the roof recreation area—basketball, skate boards, dodge ball—you know, kid games. Then ice cream and another movie, and it winds down by 7:00 in the morning. It’s a very full night, and when it’s over you’ll be extremely tired.”

  I started to complain about how this all-nighter messed up my date night with Bonnie, but I bit my tongue in light of his current situation. “I’d like to say I’m looking forward to this gig, but to be honest I’m not.”

  Thurm didn’t hear me. He was too busy trying to get Martha’s attention to bring the bread tray our way. Unfortunately, by the time she made it to our table the “manna from heaven” had all been distributed.

  “Sorry boys,” she grinned, “can I get you a cracker?” She disappeared into the kitchen laughing out loud.

  Fridays were usually fairly quiet at First Church. Though theoretically a work day, most of the pastoral staff members never came in on Friday. Giving them the benefit of the doubt, I assumed most were either at home preparing for their weekend ministries, or perhaps had meetings or appointments scheduled off-site. This reality often made my Fridays quite busy, having to cover many of the pastoral bases at the church in their absence. By 5:00 on most Friday afternoons, I was exhausted.

  With the all-nighter kicking off at 10:00, I knew I needed a strategy or I’d never make it through the night wi
th my body intact. I decided I’d knock off a little early if possible and try to snag a two or three-hour nap before heading back to the church at 10:00. Sure enough, I stayed swamped all day with several benevolent interviews, two committee meetings, and an emergency run to the hospital to check on Miss Fanny Stutson (one of The Three Widows) who had fallen and broken her hip. Of course, the other two widows, Emily and Beatrice, were there and beside themselves with anguish. You would’ve thought all three ladies had broken their hips. And to top it off, Erlene Markham spent the afternoon at the church, so I had to play “duck and run” all afternoon to avoid being drawn into one of her epic conversations.

  Limping home about 4:30, I wolfed down a spaghetti and meat balls frozen dinner while watching Headline News. My cell phone rang. Bonnie’s name flashed on the screen.

  “Hey, Bonnie. What’s up?”

  “You want to grab something to eat?’

  “Sorry, I just ingested a frozen dinner, and now I’m heading to bed.”

  “That’s probably not a bad idea. Gonna be a long night for you.”

  I yawned. “Sure you don’t want to join the all-night party?”

  “Nope, Peg and I are going to see a chick flick. By the way, I’ve talked to several people who chaperoned all-nighters before, and they all say the same thing.”

  “Which is?”

  “It’s eight long hours of intensely wishing you could go home and go to bed. About fours hours in your legs begin to ache, and then your head starts to hurt, and—”

  “Okay, okay, I’ve got it, thank you very much. No more horror stories.”

  “Peg’s beeping me. Gotta run. I’ll call you tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh no you won’t!” I threatened, but she’d already cut me off. If she calls in the morning, I’ll have to think up some evil way to get back at her. I could give Erlene her cell phone number. Oh yeah. No, that would be cruel and unusual punishment.

  I needed to get three or four hours of sleep, but it was only 5:30 in the afternoon. What to do? The situation called for a Baptist cocktail, which every good teetotaler Baptist knows is a shot of Nyquil. Not the recommended dosage up to the designated line on the plastic cup. No, we’re talking ‘bout filling that sucker right to the top of the rim, then lettin’ her burn all the way down.