by Angela Hunt
“You gave us a real fright,” the doctor said, running a hand through his wispy hair. “Apparently you’re allergic to the fumes from the fog machine. Your throat was closing right up.”
“It was?” Winslow croaked. He felt grass beneath his hands and struggled to push himself upright.
“You’re fine now,” Edith said, helping him to a sitting position. “Doctor Marc had medicine in his bag, and the shot he gave you worked right away.” She laughed softly. “Getting you out of all that smoke didn’t hurt, either.”
Winslow blinked rapidly at the surreal scene around him. Georgie Graham was playing Frisbee with his father and Zuriel Smith, while Micah played the harmonica for Birdie and Bea. Vernie Bidderman was riding her motor scooter over the dunes that sheltered the cemetery, her skirts flying up past her bony knees, while Russell Higgs and Buddy Franklin loudly debated the pros and cons of trapping pistols—lobsters with only one claw. Olympia de Cuvier and Annie Cuvier were strolling in the sun, their heads together in a shared moment. Under the shade of the elm tree, Floyd and Cleta Lansdown sat with Reverend Rex Hartwell in folding chairs someone must have brought up from the basement.
“How long—” Winslow began.
“About twenty minutes,” Edith answered.
“Then why—” Winslow shook his head. “Why are they still here? Why didn’t everybody go home?”
“I’m sure they want to know how you’re feeling,” Edith answered, brushing dried grass from his shoulders.
Winslow glanced around a moment more, then lifted a brow. “Doesn’t seem that anyone’s really interested.”
Just then Cleta looked in their direction. “Thank the Lord, he’s up,” she shouted, springing out of her chair like a jack-in-the-box. “Floyd, go downstairs and bring up the others. Tell ’em to bring a chair; they’ll need to sit.”
Winslow’s thoughts spun in bewilderment. “What—”
Cleta didn’t give him time to finish. “We’re going to have a church meeting, Pastor,” she said, waving to Vernie on the dunes. “Now that you’re fine, there’s no reason we can’t keep to our schedule.”
Winslow sat up straighter and brushed his sleeves, struggling to control his swirling emotions. While he lay at death’s door, they partied and played. Now that he was awake and well they were still determined to cut his throat.
Very well.
“Edith,” he commanded, extending his arm, “help me up. I’m not going to take this sitting down.”
Concern and confusion mingled in her eyes as she helped him stand, then Winslow brushed the remainder of the grass from his suit.
Doctor Marc bent to pick up the fabric bundle that had pillowed Winslow’s head. “Here,” he said, shaking the wrinkles out of an expensive-looking suit coat. “I expect you’ll be wanting to return this.”
“Um,” Winslow said, taking the coat, “of course. Whose is it?”
Wordlessly, Doctor Marc pointed toward Reverend Rex Hartwell, who was advancing with Cleta Lansdown.
He’d been resting on his rival’s coat? The strength suddenly went out of Winslow’s arm. His hand dropped, dragging the coat in the grass, but Edith caught it, then carefully draped it over her arm as Cleta approached with the other minister.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Cleta called, her voice drawing the others like a dinner bell. “This wasn’t exactly how we planned to do this, but there’s no time like the present. And so, Pastor,” she lowered her gaze and looked Winslow directly in the eye, “we would like to introduce you to Reverend Rex Hartwell, from the Maine Council of Independent Churches.”
Winslow felt his mouth go dry as the fine-looking minister in shirtsleeves stepped out and offered his hand. “I’m pleased to meet you,” Hartwell said, his voice like soothing music. “I’ve heard many good things about you.”
“Likewise,” Winslow murmured. By the sheer force of will, he thrust out his arm and shook Hartwell’s hand.
“And now,” Cleta said, beaming, “the Reverend Hartwell has news for you.”
Grasping for the few remaining shreds of his dignity and courage, Winslow straightened and reached for Edith’s hand.
“Reverend Wickam,” Hartwell said, his face shimmering like gold in the autumn sunlight, “we have received your application for a financial grant. The committee approved it, pending my investigation, of course, and so today I am happy to tell you that your church will be receiving a check for $25,000. Enough, I am told, to put a new roof on your building and make a few sorely-needed improvements to the parsonage.”
Winslow stared, momentarily speechless in surprise. “A grant?” he finally whispered. “For the church? But I never—”
“Yes, you did.” Hartwell pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “The application is five years old, so perhaps you don’t remember sending it in. But you did, and we approve. And we hope you still need the funds.”
Winslow looked at Edith in amused wonder. “Still need—oh, that’s funny!” He cock-a-doodled a short laugh, then sent a sharp glance toward Cleta. “So—it was all about money? But what about—” he hesitated.
“What about what, Pastor?” Cleta asked.
Winslow shook his head slightly. “I, uh . . . well, I heard something about your committee applying for an interim pastor.”
Doctor Marc frowned. “Why would we need an interim? You planning on going somewhere?”
“No.” Winslow’s lips trembled with the need to shout in relief. “But I heard something about Parker Thomas filling in. Isn’t he—isn’t that who you wanted for an interim pastor?”
“Oh, my!” Beatrice Coughlin pressed her hand to her throat. “He knows.”
“Well, don’t keep him in the dark forever,” Birdie snapped. “Go get the thing so he can see for himself.”
Winslow shook his head. “Get what thing?”
The answer came a moment later, when Beatrice came out of the church with her head down and a large rectangular object tucked under her arm.
Winslow suppressed a groan. Another portrait? He hadn’t liked the first one, but at least this time he knew better than to expect an Andrew Wyeth original. Since he’d bought that puffin picture from the Graham Gallery, it might well be another picture of seabirds. Brown paper covered the framed whatever-it-was, so he had no way of knowing what the committee had come up with this time.
With the dignity of a general presiding over an inspection of the troops, Bea presented the package to Cleta, who held it up high so everyone in the chairs could see.
“Because we love you, Pastor Wickam,” she said, tossing Winslow a quick smile, “we would like to present you with this token of our affection.”
As Cleta held the package, Bea ripped away the brown wrapping. For a moment the sun glinted off the oils, blinding Winslow with the glare, but as he shifted his position he saw that Cleta held the same portrait they had given him a month ago . . . except that the formerly bald Winslow Wickam now sported a full head of dark, bushy hair.
His mouth dropped open.
“When you kept wearing the, um, hairpiece,” Bea explained delicately, “we had to find the portrait artist, Parker Thomas.”
“To fill in,” Winslow whispered, staring at the wavy mass the artist had painted upon his image.
Did he really look that silly? Of course he did. Children and drunks never lie, and little Georgie Graham had called it right when he first glimpsed the toupee. It did look like he had a black squirrel on his head.
Winslow grimaced in good humor, then turned to Edith, who was staring at the portrait in fascination. He covered his mouth with his hand. “I feel foolish,” he whispered.
“You shouldn’t.” Her blue eyes sparkled as she turned to him and smiled. “You should feel loved. ”
Winslow squeezed her hand, knowing she was right. How could he have been so wrong? His imagination had run away with him, and his faith in these people—and in God—had blown away like chaff before the wind. He’d been preaching on optimism and f
aith while his own had been sorely lacking.
Winslow closed his eyes. “Father, forgive me,” he murmured. “Restore to me the joy of shepherding this flock.”
“Preacher, you all right? You look a mite streaked.”
“I’m fine.” Winslow opened his eyes and gave Cleta his warmest smile. “But I was wondering, Cleta—can you get Parker Thomas to come back and take the hair off? I’ve decided to go back to the old me . . . if that’s all right with all of you.”
Cleta’s pencil-thin brows shot up to her hairline when Winslow ripped the toupee from his head and Frisbeed it to young Georgie Graham, who danced on his toes with excitement.
“Look out, Georgie!” Winslow called. “Here comes a flying squirrel!”
Epilogue
And that’s the way it happened, friends. Some of you may not believe parts of the story, but if you visit the Heavenly Daze Community Church and look up at a certain picture in the vestibule, you can’t help but notice that the pastor’s head seems a mite thicker than normal—due to all those coats of paint, of course.
Olympia and Annie are progressing well. Reconciliation is not going to happen overnight, because rarely do feelings and hurts correct themselves in a short time. But they have opened their hearts to one another, and the balm of forgiveness heals many a wound.
Annie and Olympia are working on the hug thing. Olympia has told Annie that she’ll never be a touchy-feely sort of person, but she’s agreed to give and receive hugs on arrivals, departures, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. New Year’s is up for discussion.
Winslow and Edith are doing fine. He’s got his priorities straight, he’s got Edith’s love, and he has the undying devotion of his congregation. What man of God could ask for more? On his last birthday, he received another lovely puffin picture. It’s in the attic.
Life goes on in Heavenly Daze, for humans and angels alike. We’re all living together, learning a lot, and loving each other, just as the Lord intended.
And in October, whenever the autumn winds pick up and send folks scurrying indoors for a bit of cover, I’ll always remember the year of the tomato experiments . . . and the Wickam portrait. Because, my friends, what we see as trial, God often intends as blessing. But we need to adjust our perspective to see the truth.
As far as the tomatoes go . . . well, come back and visit with us next month. Until we meet again, we’ll be praying you are comforted by warm nights and heavenly days.
—GAVRIEL
Authors’ Note
What would possess two well-established writers with very different styles to combine their talents in a wacky series about Maine folk and angels?
A whole lotta love and a little bit of mischief.
Lori and Angie met in a shuttle van on the way to a meeting at their publisher’s office. Some folks just hit it off, and Angie and Lori felt that kind of connection. Years passed, their friendship grew, and when they saw each other at annual conventions, the bond strengthened.
Then Lori had an idea about a little town . . . and Angie said, “Angels!” And Lori said, “Houses and angels!” and Angie said, “Maine!” and Lori said, “Tomatoes!” and Angie said, “I’ve got this uncle who had hair painted on his portrait when he got a toupee . . .”
And so it began.
As we literally type the last words in our project of love, we’ve learned several things:
• Two heads are better than one.
• Synergy is cool.
• Diet Coke, mustard pretzels, and big bubblegum balls are essential writing tools.
• Writers of a certain age must get up and walk around every few hours or risk paralysis.
• God’s love and truth are able to bridge differences when writers are from different locales, denominations, and life seasons.
• Christians aren’t perfect, but they’re forgiven. And all of us are works in progress.
• Friendship is priceless.
If you want to know more about Heavenly Daze (or if you’d like one of the village recipes!), visit us at our Web pages:
http://www.heavenlydazeME.com
Until we meet again,
Lori and Angie
April 19, 2000
If You Want to Know More About . . .
• The angels around Elisha’s house: 2 Kings 6:17
• Jonah and the Big Fish: the book of Jonah
• Angels as servants and messengers: Genesis 24:7; Exodus 23:20; Hebrews 1:14
• Angels as protectors: Psalm 91:11–12
• Angels move swiftly: Hebrews 1:7
• The heavenly throne room: 2 Chronicles 18:18; Psalms 11:4; 89:14
• The prayers of the saints: Revelation 8:4
• Angels’ limited knowledge: Matthew 24:36
• Angels watching humans: 1 Peter 1:12
• The third or highest heaven: 2 Corinthians 12:2; Deuteronomy 10:14; 1 Kings 8:27; Psalm 115:16
• Seraphim: Isaiah 6:2, 6
• Cherubim: Genesis 3:24; Psalms 18:10; 80:1; 99:1
• Satan as the prince of the power of the air: Ephesians 2:2
• And, of course, the story of Habukkuk is found in the biblical book by the same name. (Look in the table of contents.)
About the Authors
LORI COPELAND is the author of more than 95 books. She lives in the beautiful Ozarks with her husband Lance. They are very involved in their church and active in supporting mission work in Mali, West Africa. Lance and Lori have three sons, two daughters-in-law, and five wonderful grandchildren.
ANGELA HUNT is the best-selling author of The Tale of Three Trees, The Debt, The Note, and The Nativity Story, with over three million copies of her books sold worldwide. Her book The Novelist won gold in ForeWord Magazine’s 2007 Book of the Year award. The Note was a Hallmark Christmas movie in December 2007. Romantic Times Book Club presented Angela with a Lifetime Achievement Award in 2006. She and her husband make their home in Florida with two mastiffs.
Visit us on the web at
www.heavenlydazeME.com