In His Place: A Modern-Day Challenge for Readers of In His Steps

by Harry C. Griffith

  Leaning across the desk, he glared at me a moment and wrinkled his forehead. “Look, we’re all concerned about Otis’s death and the way it happened, but you can’t be suggesting that we could have done anything to prevent it. Are you saying we were too high and mighty for Otis? That we made him feel inferior to the rest of us?”

  “I’m saying that maybe we all could have done a better job of ministering to him.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” Stoner clamped his jaw and gave me that piercing look that commanded the attention of so many.

  “Calm down.” I raised my hands in a defensive posture. “I’m not pointing fingers. I’m guiltier for what happened than all the church put together.” My words caught in my throat. I paused for a moment, trying to collect myself.

  “Otis called me the day before he killed himself, wondering if we could get together for a few minutes. I told him I was in the middle of my sermon preparation and asked if we could postpone it for a day or two. I could hear something in his voice. Something that should have tipped me off that he needed help. But I ignored it.

  “I keep thinking that if I’d just taken the time to meet with him, he might still be here. Do you have any idea how that makes me feel? I’m supposed to be a spiritual leader, but I didn’t have the sensitivity to hear the desperation in Otis’s voice.

  “Or maybe I did hear it but just didn’t want to inconvenience myself, or—”

  Clifton interrupted, his voice softened. “Otis’s suicide wasn’t your fault either, Pastor.”

  “Maybe not directly,” I said. “But I still feel that I should have done more to help him, to at least listen to him.”

  Clifton didn’t respond. Finally, I broke the uncomfortable silence.

  “Look, I’m not planning to use the memorial service to beat up on anybody. But I think that it’s the least we can do for Otis. We’re the only family he had.”

  Clifton looked unconvinced. “What if we have visitors?”

  “Then I hope they’ll be impressed that we cared enough for one of our own to take the time to show him our love and respect.”

  Clifton cleared his throat loudly but said nothing, spun out of his chair, and left in a cloud of anger.

  Chapter 5

  Am I just rationalizing? Am I planning to force my thoughts on the congregation and don’t want to admit it?

  Late afternoon eased into evening, and once more I stood alone in the front room of Otis’s little apartment. I’m not sure what drew me back there. After standing up to Clifton Stoner and telling him that I planned to use the Sunday morning service as a memorial for Otis, I got this sinking feeling that I had just grabbed a tiger by the tail.

  Clifton Stoner could be a powerful ally, but he was an even more menacing adversary. Over my fifteen years at Incarnation, we had been at odds more than once. And during that time, I had learned to choose my battles carefully. Maybe that was why I found myself back at Otis’s place. I wanted to make sure this was one of those battles in which I needed to engage. I also wanted to reassure myself that I wasn’t using Otis’s death as an excuse for pushing my own agenda.

  One thing was certain. If I followed through with my plans for tomorrow, there would be no turning back.

  As I began to thumb through Otis’s books and papers one more time, the doorbell rang. I opened it and found Otis’s neighbor, Lonetta Sherwood, standing there holding Skeeter.

  “I hope I’m not bothering you.” She looked out toward the street. “I saw your truck out front.”

  “Not at all.” I opened the door. “Come in.”

  Mrs. Sherwood entered the apartment and set the little dog down. The same as last time, Skeeter immediately hopped up into Otis’s recliner. Mrs. Sherwood shook her head and smiled sadly. “He’s still so lonely.”

  “So you’ve adopted him?”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’m touched that Otis would trust me to take care of Skeeter after he—well, you know. But I work full-time, and there’s no one here during the day. I wondered if someone in your church might be a better companion for him.”

  “Well, I, uh.” My mind searched for a polite way to decline.

  “I’d hate to take him to the pound, but I’m afraid that’s what I’ll have to do if I can’t find a home for him soon.”

  I knew resisting was no use. “I, uh, guess we can take him until we can find a home for him.”

  A look of relief came over her face. “Thank you, Reverend. Looking after his little dog isn’t much, but it’s the least we can do for Otis, isn’t it?”

  “You’re right, Mrs. Sherwood. It’s the least we can do.”

  She shook my hand once more and then left me alone with Skeeter. I picked up the scruffy little dog and sat down in Otis’s recliner. He curled up in my lap and breathed a contented sigh.

  “So, what am I going to do with you?”

  Maybe I should do what Mrs. Sherwood didn’t want to do. I would pass Animal Control on my way home. It would be easy enough to leave Skeeter there and be done with it. It wasn’t that I didn’t like dogs. I just didn’t need something else on my plate right now.

  I glanced over at the small table beside the recliner. On it were Otis’s Bible and a worn copy of Charles Sheldon’s book In His Steps. It had been many years since I had read the book, but there was no way to forget the classic question it posed: “What would Jesus do?” Frankly, I had a problem with the WWJD thing. Granted, it wasn’t wrong to use Jesus as a model for our actions, but surely there was more to the Christian life than just asking ourselves that question every time we faced a decision.

  “As the Father has sent Me, I also send you.”

  Those words rang in my head all day, but now others joined them.

  “As long as I am in the world, I am the light of the world.”

  Jesus spoke those words to His disciples, but He also told them, “You are the light of the world.” Great words, but how are they supposed to play out in real life? I hated to admit it, but at the moment I had no idea.

  I glanced down at the little dog sleeping in my lap then up at Otis’s wall clock. It was late, but Animal Control would still be open. A wave of guilt washed over me, but I tried to push it out of the way.

  “Come on, Skeeter. Let’s go.”

  Chapter 6

  How could one little dog be the source of such emotional distress? I must have circled the block around Animal Control at least five times before I finally admitted I couldn’t leave Skeeter there. Whether it was God or an overactive conscience that stopped me, I couldn’t tell.

  “This is stupid,” I told myself. “It’s just a dog. It shouldn’t be this difficult.”

  All reason and logic were on my side. The parsonage was owned by the church, and there was a no-animals policy we had to abide by. Besides, adding an animal to the household would create a whole new set of dynamics we didn’t need right now. Furthermore, we could also do without the extra expense of caring for a dog, as fetching a little guy as he seemed to be. Wouldn’t Skeeter have a decent chance at being adopted by a loving family?

  Yet every time I looked at the little dog on the seat beside me, I saw Otis’s face. I saw a man I had let down, a man who had died of loneliness. A man who might possibly still be alive if I had been more in touch. One of his last wishes was that his dog might be properly cared for. How could I ignore that?

  Nevertheless, that’s exactly what I tried to do. On my last lap around Animal Control, I even pulled into the parking lot and sat there for a good ten minutes.

  It was no use. At least for now, Otis’s little dog would become a member of the Long family. Unfortunately, he would have to be a stealth member because of the church’s no-pets policy.

  It used to be a common practice, but nowadays it’s quite rare for a church to provide a parsonage for its pastor. But Incarnation is an old church. And their parsonage is an old house. Nestled in one of the older neighborhoods of Belvedere, our two-thousand-square-foot bungalow
did not reflect the wealth of the church that owned it. Not that it was run-down, but neither was it in perfect condition. In fact, parsonage repair frequently made it onto the agenda of church board meetings. Over the past five years, I had painted it, replaced the roof and the carpeting, and made major repairs to the plumbing and wiring. Sometimes I amused myself by speculating on whether the church had hired me because I am a handyman rather than for my preaching and pastoral gifts. Still, it was a decent place to live and a good neighborhood for our children to grow up in.

  I kept reminding myself that I wasn’t in pastoral ministry for the money or the perks. I tucked Skeeter under my arm as I climbed our front porch steps and entered the house. It didn’t take long for my children to notice our new arrival.

  “A dog!” screamed Hannah, our eleven-year-old, as she bounded across the living room. Hannah is a little sprite and a chatterbox, with dark hair like mine—though hers is usually in a ponytail—and a face that likes to smile. “Is he ours? Can we keep him?” She turned and yelled down the hall toward the bedrooms. “Brandon, Dad got us a dog!”

  Brandon, our fourteen-year-old, called out from his bedroom. “No he didn’t.” Brandon is blond like his mother and, though quiet by nature, was always a typical first child and older brother—steady, responsible, and dependable—that is, until he became a teenager. Then it was as though some wires snapped and he became self-absorbed, insolent, and unreliable. At least that’s how it seemed when he was around me.

  “Yes, he did,” she shouted back. And before I could say a word, she scooped up Skeeter and ran down the hallway to prove her point.

  About that time, I looked up and saw Jayne standing in the doorway to our small dining room. She didn’t say a word. She just looked at me with raised eyebrows.

  Jayne was the glue that held our little family together. She was a strong-willed decision maker, especially regarding family issues. She whispered so only I could hear her, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  With my legs apart as though standing on solid ground and my hands making the motion of being on the level, I said, “It’s temporary, just till we can find him a home.”

  Jayne nodded toward the kids’ bedrooms. “Try telling them it’s just temporary.”

  “Yeah, well, there wasn’t much I could do. Otis’s neighbor foisted him off on me before I had a chance to explain all the reasons it wouldn’t work.”

  As if on cue, Brandon and Hannah came into the living room. Brandon carried Skeeter now. “I thought we weren’t allowed to have a dog.”

  “Skeeter belonged to Mr. Otis.” I gave them a “Dad means it” look. “He’ll only be staying with us until we can find him a home.”

  Brandon handed the dog back to his sister. “Told ya,” he added over his shoulder as he left the room.

  Hannah shot him a withering glance and held the wriggling dog tightly. “Why can’t we keep him?”

  “Honey, you know the church doesn’t allow pets in their house.”

  “But it’s our house, too.” Her bottom lip trembled as tears welled up in her eyes. “It’s not fair.”

  “Maybe not, but you can at least enjoy him for a little while.”

  “I don’t want him for a little while,” she sobbed. “I want him to be mine forever.”

  “Listen, Hannah—” I began, my voice rising, but Jayne interrupted.

  “Hannah, I think Skeeter probably would like to have something to eat. Why don’t you see if he likes some of the leftover rice from last night’s supper?”

  Hannah nodded and brushed away the tears as she led the little dog into the kitchen.

  Jayne called after her, “Not too much now. And give him some water, too.” Then she came over, put her arms around my waist, and kissed me. She took me by the hand and led me toward the front door. “Let’s go out on the porch.”

  I can’t say enough good things about this wife of mine. I could pull a lot of lines from Proverbs to describe her wisdom, kindness, and strength of mind, emotion, and spirit. She’s the rock of stability in our little family. She’s also a beautiful blond, tall and stately.

  When I think of how fortunate I am to have Jayne as my wife, I’m reminded of something that happened years ago. I ran into a friend who had known Jayne and me in college. I told him I had just met his wife, Cindy, and that we had something in common. He replied with a laugh that we had both out-married ourselves. My sentiment exactly!

  It was particularly at times when I was perplexed that I valued this wonderful woman the Lord had let me have as a partner in life. And now was one of those times.

  The sun began to set and a cool breeze washed over us as we sat down on the porch swing.

  “I’m sorry.” I looked to the horizon and sighed. “I didn’t mean to start World War Three.”

  “She’ll be fine.” She took my hand. “How are you doing?”

  I shook my head. “Not so good. I can’t shake the feeling that Otis’s death is my fault, at least in part. I guess that’s why I brought the little guy home. Maybe I’m doing penance.”

  “You can’t think that way. Otis made his own choice. That wasn’t anyone’s fault. Certainly not yours.”

  I shrugged. “It’s not just Otis. I just can’t get past what Philip said. How can someone be a member of our church—an active member—yet die of loneliness? What are we doing here if we’re not reaching out to people like Otis?”

  Jayne leaned up against me and rested her head on my shoulder.

  I kissed the top of her head.

  She didn’t say a word.

  Didn’t need to.

  Chapter 7

  Daddy, why did Mr. Otis die?”

  Hannah’s question took me by surprise. For most of the evening, her only topic of conversation had been Skeeter. She’d proposed every conceivable scenario by which we could keep him and by which she would be able to have her very own dog. I could, of course, have called Clifton Stoner and asked for at least a short reprieve from the no-pets policy, but there were too many crosscurrents of dispute going on right now. I didn’t want to add to them. So, one by one, I’d had to shoot down her ideas.

  No, we couldn’t convince the people in the church to change their minds.

  No, we couldn’t hide Skeeter and pretend we didn’t have a dog.

  No, we couldn’t make him an outside dog.

  When she ran out of arguments, she melted down and went back to her bedroom crying.

  Skeeter accompanied her.

  The battle had gone on all evening, so when I went to say good night, I expected another onslaught. Instead, she asked the one question I wasn’t prepared to answer. How do you explain suicide to an eleven-year-old?

  She lay on her bed, covered by a pink, quilted comforter, her dark hair splayed across the pillow. Skeeter, obviously sensing his primary advocate in the house, had curled up on the bed, tight up against her.

  “Well, sometimes people get very, very sad, and they decide they don’t want to live anymore.”

  “Did he shoot himself?”

  “No, what gave you that idea?”

  “That’s what Brandon said.”

  I made a mental note to have a talk with Brandon as soon as I left Hannah.

  I brushed my fingers through her hair. “No, sweetie. He took some pills that made him go to sleep.”

  Her brow furrowed. “But why would he leave Skeeter?”

  “He didn’t. Not really. He asked his neighbor to take care of Skeeter, but she wasn’t able to. That’s why I brought him here, so we could do what Mr. Otis wanted and find a home for him.”

  Hannah was quiet for a long moment. “Did Mr. Otis go to hell?”

  Her words shot through me like a lance. “Did Brandon tell you that, too?”

  She nodded.

  “No,” I said. “Mr. Otis loved Jesus. I imagine he and Jesus are sitting together right now, having a long talk.”

  She looked at me with blue eyes, big enough to melt the hardest of hearts. “Ar
e you sure we can’t keep Skeeter?”

  “No, sweetie, we can’t. But I’ll tell you what we can do. We’ll take our time finding a home for him. You’ll get to enjoy him for a good long while. Now, go to sleep. We have a big day tomorrow.”

  Hannah smiled and closed her eyes.

  The handmade sign on Brandon’s bedroom door read: “Knock, please. If u don’t, I bust ur face.”

  Not that I was worried, but I knocked anyway.

  “What?” His somewhat surly voice called through the wooden barrier of his self-made sanctuary.

  “It’s Dad.”

  A few seconds later, the door opened partway. Brandon stood there in a T-shirt and pajama pants, blocking the entrance. At fourteen, he was nearly as tall as my almost six feet, but his straight blond hair and fair complexion favored his mother.

  “May I come in?”

  Brandon stepped away from the door and walked back to his desk. He put a headset on and focused his attention on a flat-screen monitor. I had evidently interrupted a game of Halo 3.

  “Could we talk?”

  Brandon nodded.

  “Without that?” I pointed to the monitor, where someone had just blown up.

  Brandon sighed and paused the game. He turned and looked at me as though I weren’t there.

  “Hannah seems to have gotten the idea that Otis shot himself. Do you know anything about that?”

  A look of surprise flashed across Brandon’s face. “Didn’t he?”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “He killed himself. I just thought—I mean, isn’t that how most people do it?”

  I shook my head. “Otis took an overdose of sleeping pills.”

  “Oh.”

  “Did you also tell her Otis went to hell?”

  Brandon nodded and looked down into his lap.

  “Why would you say that?”

  He shrugged.

  “Look at me.”

  Brandon looked up, his expression a mixture of sorrow and defiance.

  I repeated my question, a bit more firmly. “Why would you say that?”