“What are they praying for?” he asked in a dull voice.
Stan shook his head. “There are a lot of things to pray for right now, Nick. Everybody feels real vulnerable. Our hearts are tender. Maybe this is just where God needs us to be.”
Nick went in and watched from behind the screen door as Stan drove away. The trailer smelled like a celebration, with the different scents of lovingly cooked dishes. Ordinarily, he would have let the scents draw him and comfort him, but he had no appetite. And looking at those prayer warriors across the street, praying right out in the open, where anyone who drove by would see…that should stir the spirit in him. Were they praying for the people who had done this to their church? Were they praying for Ben’s killers? He hoped they were praying for Susan and Ray, or for him.
But somehow he felt those prayers were falling on deaf ears.
“How does it glorify you, Lord,” he whispered, “to see our church in a heap of ashes? How does that work to the good of those who love you?”
He closed and locked the door before anyone could cross the street to speak to him. He had nothing to say to them, nothing to give. Nothing at all.
He sat down and tried to get comfortable. He realized that since the church was no more, maybe he was no longer a preacher. He didn’t have a funeral to preach, didn’t have a pulpit, and his library of books which he kept in his office in the church had been burned away.
Every hope and dream had been consumed. And if Nick was no longer a preacher, then who was he? Maybe being a firefighter was enough. But the truth was that he had even been a failure at that. The irony overwhelmed him, that here he was a preacher and a firefighter, and his own church had been destroyed by fire.
The doorbell rang, and he closed his eyes tight and decided not to answer it. He couldn’t see anyone right now. He couldn’t talk.
His stomach told him it was lunchtime, so he ate a dinner roll. He was too tired to get up and serve a plate from one of the dishes in the kitchen. Sometimes a person needed to just lie there and stare at the ceiling. There seemed to be no alternative.
He tried to nap for a while, but sleep wouldn’t come. When the phone rang, he let the machine get it.
The call from Stan telling him the elders of his church had called a meeting to discuss what needed to be done hit him like a dull thud between his eyes. He wasn’t ready to meet with the elders, not until he’d managed to drag himself out of this melancholy.
But he didn’t know if he’d be able to do that. Despair had never weighed so heavily on his heart. There was nothing left. Someone might as well admit it.
For some time he had been insecure about his calling. Every time he failed a church member by saying the wrong thing, saying too much, not saying enough, he wondered if he should be a preacher at all. Every time he lost a member, every time he saw one backslide, every time he couldn’t address their needs, he realized how much better a full-time preacher might do. Maybe being bivocational was his downfall, but he couldn’t afford to live on what they paid him at the church. Maybe someone else could.
He went to his computer in the tiny living room and turned it on. He sat staring at the screen, wondering what he would say if he composed a letter of resignation and gave it to the elders tonight.
But his resignation seemed almost moot at this point. What was there to resign from, after all? Still, he felt he needed to make the gesture just for the purpose of offering closure to the congregation who depended on him. They would all be free to scatter in their own directions. Some could go to the Baptist church that worshiped on Jacquard. Others would decide to try the Presbyterian church over on Second Avenue. Methodists worshiped on Rue Matin, and then there was, of course, the Catholic church on the west side of Newpointe. Nick supposed that he would find a place to worship, where it wouldn’t be so uncomfortable being a sheep instead of a shepherd.
He typed a letter that was straightforward and to the point, then punched the key to print it out. He watched as it scrolled through the printer. In a few seconds it was a done deal. The elders would have to accept the demise of the church, put the land up for sale, and move on with their lives. Somehow, he would get over the Lord’s removing his calling. He had to fight the bitterness welling up inside, and this debilitating sense of failure. He had to get rid of the pride that was making him bitter.
Somehow, he had to swallow it all and find a way to look up to the Lord with his hands open and say, “What next, Lord? You tell me. I’m yours.” He was a jar of clay, and some jars of clay were meant to be used for noble purposes. Others were not. Maybe he was one of those instruments of mediocrity, one of those common vessels with no significant purpose. Maybe he’d just been kidding himself, thinking that the Lord had marked him for special service.
Fighting back the tears in his eyes, he bathed himself as best he could without getting his bandaged legs wet, and tried to wash the pain and regrets away.
Nick was a few minutes late for the meeting, which was being held in the kitchen at the fire station. He went in and saw that most of the church leaders were there. Mark and Dan, still on duty, Stan Shepherd, Frank Dupree from the hospital lab, Jesse Pruitt, retired schoolteacher, Vern Hargis and Sid Ford, cops, and Andre Bouchillon, who owned most of the apartments in town, were all at the table, waiting. Aunt Aggie, as comfortable in the fire station’s kitchen as any of the firefighters there, was cutting pieces of cheesecake and pouring coffee. They were already engaged in discussion when he arrived, but the room got amazingly quiet the moment he limped in.
He stood in the doorway, looking from one man to the other, wishing he didn’t feel so vulnerable and broken. He felt like telling them there was no point in going on with this. They didn’t have to pretend anymore. It was over. They could just pronounce the church dead and move on.
“T-Nick, you get off ’em feet and prop them legs up, you!” Aunt Aggie cried, pulling him toward two chairs. She had fashioned an ottoman out of one of them. “I tried tellin’ ’em you didn’t need to be out runnin’ around with burned up lungs and fried legs. Want some cheesecake, sha?” The Cajun forms of petite and chere rolled right past him.
“No, thanks.” He was too tired and out of breath to refute any one of Aunt Aggie’s claims about him, so he just lowered to the chair and propped his legs up.
“So how are you feeling, buddy?” Jesse Pruitt asked him gently.
“Fine,” he said. “Really, I’m fine. I’ll be good as new in a few days.” Each man reached across the table to shake his hand, and as he greeted them, he realized that one of the deacons was missing. Ray Ford. Of course. A man preparing to bury his son didn’t come to church meetings. Especially if he blamed his son’s death on God.
His heart twisted with as much pain as his bandaged shins. When the greetings were done, the men sat back, giving the floor to him, as if he would open the meeting and lead them in some enlightened discussion about the state of the church, making them all feel better.
He could hear some of the firemen—probably Slater Finch, Marty Bledsoe, and Jacob Baxter—working out in the truck bay. Today was truck cleanup day. They would have their work cut out for them, after yesterday. Tomorrow they would do yard work when they weren’t on a call. The next day was housecleaning day, when they scrubbed toilets and mopped floors. Despite all the menial chores that kept them busy, fire fighting was an important job, nothing to sneeze at, nothing to make him feel deprived. At least he’d been properly trained for that. It was preaching he wasn’t adequately educated for. Taking seminary classes at night wasn’t the kind of training that made one a great pastor.
He shifted in his chair, wondering if the fatigue brought on by his damaged throat and lungs, the stress from yesterday, the burns and bruises, might be making him feel extraordinarily defeated. Maybe he needed to sleep on it, pray on it, and wait a little while before handing them that letter.
But he didn’t have the energy to wait. The sooner this door was closed, the better. He didn’t have what
it took to see them through the life-support efforts when the church was nothing but a corpse.
He cleared his throat. When they kept waiting, he knew he should open with a prayer. But he was too tired. He needed to economize his words, save his voice. “I want to thank whoever called this meeting,” he said finally. “As you might imagine, I’ve been a little shaken up and haven’t really been thinking too clearly. But we do have some decisions to make.”
He pulled the letter out of his pocket, his hands shaking. He looked down at it, ran his fingers over it. After a long pause, he put it on the table in front of him. “I guess this can be the first decision we take care of.”
The deacons stared at it as if they didn’t know which one of them should read it first.
“What is it, Nick?” Sid asked.
Nick drew in a deep, raspy breath and pulled it back. “Well, I guess I’d better read it out loud,” he said. “It’s my letter of resignation.”
There was a collective gasp around the room, and Mark slapped his hands on the table. “Nick, you’ve got to be kidding.”
“No,” he said. “I have to do it. God took my church away from me. I have to accept that.”
“God didn’t take your church away,” Dan said, in a tone that suggested Nick was delirious. “Some maniac did. He didn’t fire you, for heaven’s sake. We didn’t fire you. We still have a congregation, Nick. We need a pastor.”
Nick fought the tears in his eyes, but they were stronger than he was. “Maybe I’ve led us wrong,” he said. “Maybe I haven’t been everything I need to be.”
Stan sat at the end of the table, watching him with tired, serious eyes. “This is about Ray and Susan, isn’t it, Nick?”
Nick met his eyes. “No, Stan, it’s nothing to do with that.”
“Of course it is,” Stan said. He looked around at the others. “Nick and I visited Ray and Susan today. They said some things about being mad at God. Nick’s taking that as a personal failure.”
“Look, my brother’s hurtin’,” Sid cut in gently. “The whole family is.”
Nick pinched the bridge of his nose.
“The point is,” Stan said, “you can’t base your decision on emotion after a tragedy.”
“I’m basing my decision on a lot of things,” Nick said, sliding his hands down his face. “I’ve failed the church. I’ve failed it miserably. When a kid is found murdered in your sanctuary and it’s burned down before your eyes, you have to ask what God is trying to tell you.”
“He’s not trying to tell you anything,” Dan said. “Nick, you’ve taught us a million times in a million different ways that sometimes God brings suffering to purify us. We’ve prayed for revival. Well, maybe this is it. Maybe this is really an answered prayer.”
“An answered prayer?” Nick asked. “How in the world do you figure that?”
“Maybe people will get closer to the Lord through this. Maybe he can use it.”
Stan leaned forward on the table, his arms crossed in front of him. “Nick, I think I can speak for all of us when I say that we won’t accept your resignation. You need to pray about this. You don’t need to do it the day after you’ve been through such serious trauma, both physical and mental. You need to give it some time. I guarantee you, when you’re feeling better and stronger, when you’ve had time to rest and heal, when you see what God is going to do with the church from here on out, you’re going to change your mind.”
“No, I’m not, Stan. I’m not going to change it.”
“Fine,” Dan told him. “Then if you still feel this way in a month or so, you can always quit then.”
Nick sighed heavily, then began to cough. When he stopped, he felt soul-weary and too tired to fight them. “I’ll think about waiting,” he said. “I’m not promising anything.”
“Fine,” Sid said. “Now then, we need to talk about where we gon’ meet till we get that church rebuilt.”
“I was thinking,” Dan said, “of asking the mayor if we could use the courtroom. It’s probably big enough, and it’s empty on Sundays.”
“Good idea,” Stan said. “You get her to agree to it, and we can start calling people to let them know. If she doesn’t agree, we can try the high school auditorium. Third choice might be the Ritz Theater. We might have to sweep up popcorn and drink cups before the service, but it’s better than nothing.”
“I’ll find us a place,” Dan assured them. “Leave it to me.”
“Well, that’s one problem solved,” Sid said.
“Now we need to get the insurance adjuster out,” Jesse Pruitt said. “Nick, you give me the information on the company, and I’ll place the claim.”
Nick hadn’t even thought of that. Maybe they were right. Maybe he was too sick to make rational decisions. “Okay, Jesse,” he said. “I appreciate that. I’m sure I’ve got a number or something at home, even though the policy itself probably burned in the fire.”
Mark touched Nick’s shoulder. “See, Nick? It’s all gonna be okay. We’re gonna take care of what we can, and God will take care of the rest. And I just have a feeling about Sunday.”
“What kind of feeling?” Nick asked.
“A feeling that the Holy Spirit is going to do some mighty things,” Dan said, as if he had the same feeling. “You wait, Nick. This is not the end of our church. It may just be a fresh beginning.”
Chapter Fourteen
Because there was always the chance that a smoldering ember might blow into a flame again, Mark, Dan, and George took the evening fire watch the day after the fire. They hacked at parts of the wall still standing, making sure that every spark had died. There would be someone here around the clock for the next couple of days.
When members began showing up to see the charred structure, they kept them back. So the members congregated at one end of the property, far enough away from the debris not to get hurt, but close enough that they were still on the property.
Someone brought a guitar and they began to sing praise songs together, and slowly the crowd grew. From the way they sang and praised God, one would think that he had swooped down and struck them with a glorious gift instead of a devastating fire.
Mark didn’t want Allie to miss it. He went back to the truck, got his cell phone out, and dialed his home number.
“Hello?”
“Hey, hon. How’s it goin’?”
Her sigh told him she hadn’t gotten over the shock of the tragedy. “Okay, I guess. I just got back from Susan and Ray’s. It was bad, Mark.”
“I know something that might make you feel better. They’re holding a bona fide church service right on the church grounds. Singing and praising God, just like Nick taught us.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. It’s really amazing. Jacob Baxter has his guitar, and people who drive by to see the damage keep stopping and getting out. I think it’s a great testimonial to the community. Don’t you want to come?”
“Do you think it’s too cool out for Justin?” she asked, referring to their toddler.
“I think it’s fine. He’ll probably sleep through it.”
“Then we’ll be right there.”
He clicked off the phone and leaned back against the truck, watching the spirit of his church declare that it had lived on, even if the building was gone. He wondered if he should go knock on Nick’s door and give him the chance to join in. Then he thought better of it. If he wasn’t aware of it already, it probably meant he was so wiped out that he needed his rest.
Allie arrived with little Justin, and the child slept on her shoulder as she sang and swayed in worship. Staying near the debris, Mark began to sing with them, and soon Dan and George joined in. Like the others, they began to feel a sense of hope rather than a sense of mourning. It was just as Nick had taught them to react to trials. “Consider it joy,” he’d said time and time again. “Thank God when he refines you like silver.”
Soon the praise songs turned to prayers, and the members prayed one by one, lifting up t
he Fords and their family and friends, lifting up Nick for healing both inside and out, lifting up the church body, which had challenges ahead, lifting up the community that still had so much to learn.
People began to weep as they prayed, and one by one, some dropped to the ground, with no concern for the dirt on their knees. Eventually, others fell to their faces, wailing out their combination of confession and repentance, mourning and thanksgiving, prayers of intercession and prayers of hope for the future.
As night fell over the group, the singing began again, interspersed with more prayer. The group grew, as if word had traveled that a prayer meeting was going on, and no one wanted to miss it. It was loud and heartfelt, passionate and private, purging and purifying, a tent revival without a tent or an evangelist.
Something was happening in the church, something Mark had never seen before. The Holy Spirit was here, his power brighter than the fire that had swallowed the building. They could set fire to the church and destroy the building, but their lampstand still stood.
It was about nine o’clock when a 1986 model Ford van drove by too slowly, its rattling engine disrupting the church, and its loud rap music blaring at eardrum-shattering level. The dirty white van slowed as it passed the worshipers, then it screeched off, running a stop sign. Sid Ford, who had joined the group halfway through, left the circle and went to his squad car, parked on the side of the road. It took him a couple of blocks to catch up to the van with the half-deaf occupants. He knew he had no grounds to arrest them, but at least he could shake them up a little, make them stop disturbing the peace while driving through town.
He turned on his lights and gave them a block to pull over. Holding his flashlight, he got out, walked toward the van, and saw a swastika sticker in the bottom corner of the rear window. An alarm clanged in his head. Hadn’t a witness claimed she’d seen several kids leaving the church before anyone noticed the fire? But she’d seen a red car, with two stickers on the bumper, not on the window. Still…had these four had something to do with murdering his nephew?
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