by Neta Jackson
Ah, those were the days. She’d been nine years old when the sixties rolled in. Summer meant playing hopscotch on the sidewalk outside their walk-up in Philly. Screaming and jumping in water spraying from a fire hydrant. Begging the boys to let her play baseball with them in the vacant lot. Innocent summer fun . . .
And then the world went crazy. The president was shot. Civil rights marches spread from city to city. Images on the TV burned themselves into her brain—snarling police dogs, fire hoses used on people, the Ku Klux Klan in their scary white hoods. Her daddy made her stay inside.
And then it got worse. Martin Luther King was shot. Hot and hopeless, people rioted in city after city, burning down their own neighborhoods.
Those were days she’d like to forget . . . like to think were behind them.
Shaking off the ugly memories, she let herself in the front door—and found Peter sprawled on the couch, watching the news on TV. “You’re home early. Everything okay?” He usually worked late on Wednesdays and went straight to the church for midweek Bible study. Except it was the congregational meeting tonight.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Just thought I’d come home early so we could, you know, go to the meeting together. I even picked up some Chinese on the way home so we wouldn’t have to cook.”
“Brownie points for you, because I’m beat.” Avis kicked off her low heels and curled up on the couch next to her husband. “Mm. Wish we could just stay home tonight. Watch a movie. Play Scrabble. Soak my feet.”
Peter snorted. “Don’t tempt me. Not exactly looking forward to this meeting tonight. But can’t let the kids downstairs show us up, can we?”
“What do you mean?”
“Nick and the little blonde—Olivia—were leaving just as I came in. She was all excited, said she just got hired as a nanny up in Wilmette starting tomorrow. They were walking up to Howard Street so they’d be on time for the meeting.”
“Just the two of them?”
“Uh-huh. They said Brygitta has to work at the coffee shop tonight, and they didn’t seem to know where Kathryn was.”
Avis shook her head. “That Kathryn—she’s a strange one. Wonder why she left so abruptly Saturday night.”
“I have no idea. Maybe you should just ask her . . . Okay, okay, I see that look! But I was proud of you, Avis. You were a gracious hostess that evening, even though she stuck up her nose at our cooking.” He chuckled. “Nick, now, he couldn’t get enough of it! Or her, for that matter.”
“Her, who?”
“Kathryn. Nick’s sweet on her. Didn’t you notice how he watches her out of the corner of his eye? And when she left, he was ready to chase after her.”
“Humph. Could just be looking out for her like a big brother.
She’s an only child, you know. She needs a big brother.”
“Huh. Those weren’t big brother looks. I’m a guy. I know these things.”
Avis laughed. “Then he’d better think twice, or he’ll be eating Dumpster food and veggie burgers the rest of his life.”
Peter scratched his chin thoughtfully. “He’s a nice kid. In fact . . . I’ve been thinking about offering him a job at Software Symphony for the summer. Would have to crunch some figures with our accountant, and it’d only be part-time, but we could use some help in the mail room. Sales picked up by a whisker last week. Maybe this economic slump is starting to turn around.”
“That’d be nice,” Avis murmured. She could feel her eyelids drooping. Oh, how she’d like to just stretch out here and fall asleep.
Peter pushed himself off the couch. “Put your feet up for five more minutes. I know how to serve up food out of those little white cardboard boxes. And then, guess we better go face the giants.”
The turnout was pretty good for a Wednesday night. Avis and Peter arrived at five to seven on purpose—not too early, to avoid getting into chatty conversations before the meeting, but not late, either. Avis hesitated before moving to her usual seat in the second row on the far right aisle. Did she want to be so close to the front tonight when at least part of the meeting would be about them? On the other hand, she didn’t really want to be looking at other people, trying to second-guess their expressions.
She and Peter sat in their usual seats.
Pastor Cobbs, looking a lot healthier this week, started the meeting right at seven, even though people were still coming in. Calling Matt Kepler to the keyboard, the pastor started off with the hymn “How Firm a Foundation.” Even though the hymn was an old one and familiar, Avis closed her eyes and heard the words as if for the first time.
How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord,
Is laid for your faith in His excellent Word! . . .
And then the second verse . . .
Fear not, I am with thee, oh, be not dismayed,
For I am thy God, and will still give thee aid;
I’ll strengthen thee, help thee, and cause thee to stand,
Upheld by My gracious, omnipotent hand.
“Thank You, Jesus,” she whispered as the hymn came to a close. She needed that assurance tonight, that God’s Word was her foundation, and His Word promised that God would never leave or forsake them, no matter what happened in this meeting tonight. Would never leave or forsake Rochelle and Conny either.
“Praise God, church!” Pastor Cobbs seemed buoyant and confident as he gripped either side of the small wooden podium. “I’m glad so many of you came tonight, as we seek God’s face about the future of SouledOut Community Church. We have several issues to attend to in the wake of the loss of our beloved Pastor Clark—one of which, certainly, is the question of calling someone to take Pastor Clark’s place as copastor of this congregation. For that we will need a pastoral search committee, and I’m suggesting that names can be submitted this evening in writing to the elders for that purpose . . . yes, Brother Meeks?”
Sherman Meeks stood, polite and humble as usual. “Thank you, Pastor. It’s true that you and Pastor Clark started this church as copastors, and it’s been a blessing. But have you considered—should we as a church consider—whether God is simply putting the mantle on you to be our pastor without calling another?” And he sat down.
A murmur rippled through the people gathered in the chairs, some heads nodding, others shaking, many whispering. “Sure would save some money in the budget,” someone cracked on the other side of the room. A few people laughed nervously. A few others said, “Amen.”
Pastor Cobbs pursed his lips a long moment before speaking. “As I shared on Sunday, I feel this church benefits from a plurality of leadership, because of the nature of this church. We are not a homogeneous church. We have a diversity of races, cultures, colors, ages—which is God’s blessing, amen?”
More amens peppered the room.
“So I believe we would do well to continue with a plurality of leadership, even though we can’t represent every one of our Heinz 57 varieties.”
More chuckles.
“Pastor?” Another hand shot up.
“Yes, Elder David.”
Now Avis did turn her head. David Brown stood up, thick glasses hiding his eyes. “I agree with you, Pastor, about needing a plurality of leadership, given our, um, mixed membership.” He swept a hand to indicate the people in the room. “But just to be clear . . . what you’re saying is, the copastor we would be looking for should be, uh, Caucasian—to be an integrated team like you and Pastor Clark.”
More murmurings. Avis felt her neck and shoulders tensing. Pastor Clark held up his hand and waited until the room quieted. “If God sends us a white pastor with a heart for unity amid our diversity, praise God. But no, I didn’t say that specifically. God might send us an Hispanic pastor, or Asian . . . I don’t want to limit what God wants to do.”
“But to be realistic,” David Brown continued, “our congregation is mostly blacks and whites. And since you already represent the African-Americans here—”
“Excuse me, Brother David. A correction.” Denny Baxter stood up,
looking for all the world like a former football player, square jaw on a thick neck, All-American good looks, graying hair, dimples in his cheeks. “I’m not African-American, but Pastor Cobbs represents me. I believe both he and Pastor Clark were pastors for all of us.”
Clapping erupted around the room. Avis didn’t move. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the door open and Kathryn Davies slip into the room, finding a seat beside Nick and Olivia toward the back.
Pastor Cobbs cleared his throat. He’d lost his buoyant look. “Thank you, Brother Denny. That is certainly my heart. Brother David, I’m not sure what your point is. Can you clarify what you’re trying to say?”
David Brown stood his ground. “All I’m saying is, if in the long run we want to hire a pastor to represent the diversity among us, I’m a bit confused at the present proposal for interim leadership . . .”
“Here we go,” Peter muttered. He gripped her hand.
Chapter 35
David Brown’s voice was Mr. Congeniality. “With all due respect to the Douglasses, who are five-star members here at SouledOut—”
Avis winced. Doesn’t he realize how sarcastic that sounds?
“—that would make our interim leadership team unbalanced racially. Three black leaders. Surely there are some white folks in the congregation who could fill Pastor Clark’s shoes until we find a more permanent pastor—sorry—copastor, I mean.”
Some heads were nodding. Pastor Cobbs seemed to be weighing his next words carefully. “Well, this is a meeting for congregational input. We could certainly put some more names on the ballot if you’d like. But I wanted to avoid making this a popularity contest or a bidding war—which is why I proposed only one set of names to share the position.”
“Absolutely. But it might be a relief to the Douglasses to know this isn’t riding on their shoulders alone. They are busy people, we all know, and already carry a lot of responsibility . . .”
Irritation crawled up Avis’s spine. How dare he pretend to speak for them—without even talking to them about it?
“. . . but right here in our congregation, we have a young man who will soon graduate from seminary, who needs an internship in a local church to finish his studies. I’d like to nominate Nick Taylor for our interim leadership team.” Smiling broadly, David Brown swept a hand toward where Nick sat with Kathryn and Olivia.
Nick’s head jerked up, startled. “What? Oh no, that’s not—”
Kathryn waved her hand. “I second the motion!” Then she turned to Nick. “You do need an internship, Nick. And you said you’d love to do it here.”
“Excuse me.” Sherman Meeks stood again. “With all due respect to the young man, he’s only been here a couple of months and he isn’t a member, whereas the Douglasses are seasoned members, with a lot of experience in this church.”
“An’ nonmembers can’t second the motion or vote neither.” Florida Hickman eyed Kathryn deliberately. The girl reddened.
“Sisters and brothers!” Pastor Cobbs’s voice took a sharp tone. “We are out of order here! These are not decisions to argue about or to make lightly.” He seemed to study the congregation, his eyes sweeping to and fro. Then he closed his eyes and lifted a hand. “I would like everyone to be quiet and just pray for a few minutes. We need to wait on the Lord.”
Shaken, Avis squeezed her eyes shut. Hadn’t the elders agreed among themselves with putting the pastor’s proposal for interim leadership to the congregation? Why was David Brown challenging it now? Challenging her and Peter, to be blunt about it.
Unfortunately, she had a good idea. His wife. Mary had been talking to him, telling him to speak up before it was too late and the church ended up “too black.” And Kathryn just added to the confusion! Though . . . she was probably just sticking up for her friend, jumping in half-baked, not realizing how it impacted them.
Lord, help us. Avis’s jumbled thoughts became half prayers. Lord, am I willing to give up the idea of being an interim pastor? Well, yes . . . I was happy being just a worship leader before this even came up! So why do I feel resentful about David Brown’s challenge? Oh God! Help me not to give in to resentment. Help me not to make Mary and David Brown my enemies. You said to love our enemies, Lord. Help me to—
“We wait for You, Lord, to show us the way. Amen.” Pastor Cobbs’s voice broke into her thought-prayers. “Brothers and sisters, it’s clear to me that we are not in a position to move forward tonight. And that’s all right. To move forward in unity takes time. So I’d like to resume this congregational meeting in two weeks, same time, to consider two things: our interim leadership, and nominations for a pastoral search committee. If you have names to suggest for either, please send them to me or one of the elders personally by the end of next week, so the elders and I can consider them and present a slate to all of you. Are there any announcements or other business that we should attend to right now? If not, Elder Debra Meeks, would you close us out in prayer?”
Avis and Peter slipped out from the meeting as quickly as they could. Peter was tight-lipped all the way home. Parking the Lexus in the garage, he finally slammed a hand on the steering wheel. “Fine. Let them put this boy in Pastor Clark’s place. He’s got the main thing going for him—he’s white.”
Avis was startled out of her own struggling thoughts. “Peter! It’s not Nick’s fault. You said yourself he’s a nice kid. You were impressed with him. David Brown is just . . . just using him to get at us. Or maybe not us personally . . . I don’t know. Whatever’s going on, it’s not Nick’s fault.”
Peter snorted. “Yeah, well . . .” He got out of the car, slammed the door, and stalked up the outdoor back stairs of the three-flat.
Avis followed. Peter had already flopped down in front of the TV news when she came in the back door. But she had no sooner put on some water to boil, hoping to brew some herbal tea to calm their nerves, when she heard a knock at the door. The TV volume jacked up louder. Hm. Peter obviously wasn’t going to get the door.
Nick Taylor stood in the hallway. “Mrs. Douglass, I—”
“Come in, Nick . . . Peter?” she called over her shoulder. “It’s Nick.”
Nick stepped just inside the door and Peter, put on the spot, turned the TV down and appeared at her side. “Nick,” he acknowledged.
“Mr. and Mrs. Douglass . . .” Nick took off his baseball cap, twisting it in his hands. “I want you to know I had nothing to do with Mr. Brown putting my name out there. I think the two of you would make a wonderful interim pastoral team, and if I were a member, I’d vote for you. Twice!”
Peter let a wry grin slip. “Yeah, that’s what good Chicagoans do. Vote early and often.” He glanced at Avis, chewed his lip a moment, and then sighed. “It’s all right, Nick. It’ll all work out. Actually, I remember you said something last Saturday night about needing to do a pastoral internship to complete your studies. You’re hoping to do that at SouledOut?”
Nick looked distressed. “That was before Pastor Clark died. I’d thought about asking the pastors about it—but then everything changed. And I know this church needs more than an intern now, especially someone who has no experience yet—like me. So I gave up that idea. I don’t know how Mr. Brown found out.”
Peter nodded. “Don’t worry about it, son. Thanks for coming up.” He stuck out his hand. “Don’t know how God’s going to work this all out, but . . .”
Nick shook Peter’s hand, then Avis’s hand, and scurried back downstairs. Avis closed the door and raised her eyebrows at Peter.
“Okay, okay.” He made a face. “You’re right. It’s not his fault. Just . . . makes it complicated, is all.”
Complicated . . . That was the truth. Avis had no idea what was going to happen next at SouledOut.
Avis pushed the uncertainty to the back of her mind the next few days so she could focus on ending school well in spite of muggy temperatures pushing into the nineties. The end-of-year assembly to which parents had been invited took place the following afternoon, and she had
to smile as her “tame the bully” strategy unfolded before her eyes. Derrick Blue, chin up, grinning, wearing a white shirt and bolo tie, his usually shaggy hair slicked and combed to the side, marched down one aisle of the auditorium carrying the American flag, and little Sammy Blumenthal—white shirt, bow tie, yarmulke clipped to his hair—marched down the other carrying the Illinois flag.
Neither of Derrick’s parents showed up though. Lord, give Derrick a glimpse of his worth in spite of his family situation, she breathed. She made sure to congratulate him and tell him how handsome he looked all dressed up.
Avis stayed late at school Thursday night as teachers turned in final grades and report cards, and she was back early Friday morning to make sure the hour-long “day” moved like clockwork. And it would have, too, except that a deafening clap of thunder drowned out the final bell at ten o’clock and rain poured from the sky. Antsy students eager to leave were diverted into the auditorium where parents could pick them up; students riding buses were held until a break in the rain, and in general the whole process took twice as long.
And no one came to pick up Derrick Blue, even though the thunderstorm passed and the sun poked out. But Sammy Blumenthal plucked at his daddy’s coat sleeve and whispered in his ear. Mr. Blumenthal—bearded, wearing a black wide-brim hat, the fringe of a prayer shawl peeking out from beneath his black coat—spoke to Avis in a solemn voice. “We can take the young man home. If there’s no one there, he can play with Sammy until someone gets home. Is that all right?”
Avis nodded. “I’ll call his mother at work and let her know. Give me your phone number in case she wants to contact you.” Much preferable to making Derrick stay at the school until three that afternoon.
It was nearly eleven by the time Avis got back to her office. She stopped and spoke to the school secretary about locking up, and the woman cut her eyes at Avis’s door, which was slightly ajar. “Someone to see you,” she mouthed.