by Tamara Leigh
What is it with these youth pastors who believe they have to emulate their charges—spiked hair, the tips of which are bleached; loose-fitting, hip-skimming jeans; and sneakers with laces as loose as the jeans? Oh well. At least he’s a nice guy—and his wife too.
The men at the Marigold table are ready to order when I appear, but they show no sign of impatience. This bodes well that I haven’t forfeited a tip. However, to be on the safe side, I put their order in and bring their drinks before moving on to the Daisy table.
Chip glances up from his cell phone and smiles. He doesn’t appear the least bit unnerved at being caught playing a game. “Hey, Harri!”
“Hey.” What more is there to say? Unless he has some insight into this whole Maddox McCray fiasco… “So what do you think about the church hiring a consultant?”
His bent head bobs. “Cool. We’re ripe for an overhaul.”
Ripe? As in bad brown banana? “Really? I thought we were doing well. After all, our numbers are rising, and Stephano has done a wonderful job moving us toward change—and at no cost to First Grace.”
“Yeah, but he’s Corporate America.” Once more, all he spares me is a glance. “This is church. Besides, Maddox comes highly recommended.”
“Does he?”
“Oh yeah. He turned around a dying church in Knoxville—went from two hundred members to six hundred in two years. Pretty impressive for a beginner.”
I startle. “Beginner?”
“Yeah. At least, in the area of church consultation.”
And Chip has problems with Stephano and “Corporate America”?
“Oh no. No!” Chip jabs a right button repeatedly. “Gotcha, sucker!”
I look around at expressions that range from amused to annoyed. And Gloria is glaring. I lean down. “Watch it, or Gloria will send out the bouncer.”
His head comes up, and with exaggerated trepidation, he says, “Ruby?”
Our cook, a large, intimidating woman whose genes are responsible for her son being among the top-ranked WWE wrestlers. “That’s the one.”
“Okay, okay.” Chip returns his attention to the game.
Would my interest overstep the bounds of casual conversation if I asked him to elaborate on Maddox’s experience—rather, lack of experience?
“Anyway, back to Maddox,” he says.
That worked out nicely.
“Apparently, he got burned out or fired—”
Fired?
“—from some big marketing firm in Knoxville.”
As in Corporate America?
“So this pastor hired him to help his church transition into the twenty-first century. And the rest is history.”
I could use a little more data, but it’s best to take what I’ve got and run. “Interesting.”
Chip looks up. “Let me guess. You don’t like him.”
“It’s too early to say.” To say.
He smiles. “Give him a chance, Harri. After all, you didn’t much like me when I started at First Grace.”
That’s not true! Well, maybe a little.
“Now, however, you’ve got a soft spot for me and Vi. Admit it.”
Uncomfortable with my transparency, I latch on to his little wife. “Do you want to put your order in or wait on Violet?” I glance at the restrooms where she often retreats with their eight-month-old. Not that she’s modest about breast-feeding. It’s just that Gloria made it clear that breast-feeding without cover is not acceptable in an establishment whose patrons’ aged sensibilities might be offended. Though I expected that first time would be the last time the Gairdts breakfasted at the café, they returned the next Saturday—and every Saturday thereafter.
“I’m on my own today.” Chip returns to his game.
“Everything all right with Violet?”
He pushes the buttons a few more times. “New high score!”
“Is Violet okay, Chip?”
“Just a bit of morning sickness.” He grins and holds up two fingers. “Baby number two on the way.”
“She’s pregnant?”
He rolls his eyes. “Uh, yeah.” He thrusts a hand near my face and snaps his fingers. “Didn’t get enough sleep last night, Harri?”
I so want to knock his hand aside. “Er… I’m good. And congratulations on baby number two. Violet’s going to have her hands full.”
He lowers his hand to his cell phone. “Me too. I’m an involved father, you know.”
True, as I often see the little guy strapped to his chest, even when Chip’s preaching to the youth. Okay, so in spite of his getup, maybe he isn’t as immature—
“Hey, wanna see this new game I downloaded yesterday?” He starts pushing buttons again. “It’s like Asteroids, but with ultra-tech fighters that blast the livin’ snot out of all these freaky enemy droids.”
Can’t say I didn’t give him the benefit of a doubt. I lift my order pad. “Maybe another time. I’m working, you know.”
“Well, in that case, I’ll have a spinach omelet, country ham, a side of grits, and a large chocolate milk.”
“Anything else?”
“A few of those pastel mints would be nice.”
I look at the hostess stand where Gloria keeps a dish of the melt-in-your-mouth sweets. Though they’re meant to be a parting treat, Chip regularly raids the bowl. And right now Gloria’s hovering over them, as if she knows exactly what we’re talking about.
“I’ll see if I can sneak you some.” The least I can do considering the “insider” information he provided on Maddox.
“Actually, a handful would be better—you know, enough to get me through this afternoon’s meeting.”
He had to remind me. Not that I needed reminding. It’s standard practice for the staff and lead volunteers to meet Saturday in preparation for Sunday. What isn’t standard is that Maddox is bound to be in attendance.
I tell myself it’s sneaky and disrespectful, but this little voice says it’s not that bad. Besides, if I’m caught, it’ll be by someone who’s guilty of the same, meaning we’re in cahoots. Sort of. And so, going into minute two of Pastor Paul’s opening prayer, I give in to the impulse to gaze at those seated around the conference table—not something I normally do, but today’s dynamics are different with the addition of Maddox, who walked in moments before Pastor Paul called the meeting to order.
Keeping my head bowed, I glance to my right where Joe, our aged treasurer, sits. In agreement with the pastor’s prayer, he nods and makes little “um-hmm” sounds. Beyond him is Harriet, whose face is heavenward, lids lowered, mouth curved.
I turn my head a bit more to settle on our organist. Bea’s eyes may be closed, head bowed, and arthritic hands clasped, but her flared nostrils and rapidly rising and falling chest are evidence it’s not the prayer she’s focused on.
Then there’s Pastor Paul, whose brow is rumpled and jaw tense as he asks God to bless this meeting. Beside him sits Stephano Fox. Salon-blond head bent, hands clasped before his mouth, our administrative pastor seems unaware of the tear growing on the tip of his nose. Bigger and bigger—
Plop!
Not many men could show that much emotion and still look yum-yum good. In fact, I’m certain the eligible thirty-four-year-old is the reason our church has drawn in so many unmarried women. He’s good looking, smart, and funny. Not that I have a crush on him, at least, not anymore.
On to Oona Baldwin, volunteer head of children’s ministry. Cranking it up a notch, she nods and murmurs, “Yes, Father… oh, Father…yes…”
Oona is very spiritual. In fact, when she and her family joined First Grace following Pastor Paul’s appointment, they were among the first to follow the new pastor’s praise-God-with-hands-high example, and the movement has gained momentum, much to the eyebrow-raising dissension of the older set.
As for my relationship with Oona, we get along well enough. I just wish she wouldn’t be so quick to offer suggestions on how to run the women’s ministry. Having held the position at her previous chu
rch, she’s full of ideas that wouldn’t appeal to our older ladies—a rock-climbing retreat among them.
I shift to her husband, Blake, who volunteered for the position of pianist when our previous one retired and moved to Phoenix eight months ago. The man is one of the friendliest you’ll meet—big teeth, expansive gums, and all. Hands clasped against his forehead, he chews a wad of gum with that strange, side-to-side jaw action of his. I nearly smile. However, Chip definitely makes me smile. One moment he appears intent on the prayer, the next he’s scratching his head. A return to intensity. Then his right arm has an itch. Satisfied, he returns to his prayerful pose, only to bend and scratch his leg.
Mouth aching with the size of my grin, I sweep my gaze past an empty chair. And there’s Maddox wearing a smile that reveals he has been watching me.
Oh. My. I’m in cahoots with Maddox McCray! I squeeze my eyes closed. Yes, he’s as guilty as I, but this is different. Does watching me watch the others fall under his job description? Is he going to make recommendations about how I ought to conduct myself during prayer?
Lord, I hate being under the microscope! But I can’t get away from it, especially now that Maddox has invaded not only my workplace but my neighborhood—
Back up! He hasn’t been given the guest mobile home merely for lodging. I’ll bet he was placed there to watch me and report on my interactions with the seniors whom Pastor Paul believes are under my sway. Clever. And sneaky.
Someone clears his throat, and I realize how quiet it has become. Opening my eyes, I peek at the others who are watching me as I was watching them earlier. “Sorry.” I grimace-smile. “Had a lot to say.” And I was talking to God, once or twice.
“Hear, hear!” Bea says. “I’m with you, Harri. Lots to say!”
I’m struck, as I often am when she’s in a state, by how much she resembles the British actress Dame Judi Dench. And nobody crosses her, not even James Bond.
Pastor Paul rises. “For those of you who haven’t met the consultant we’ve hired to help us during this time of transition, I’d like to introduce Maddox McCray.”
Maddox stands. “It’s a pleasure to be here. I look forward to working with you.” A fleeting meeting with my gaze, and he returns to his seat.
Pastor Paul smiles. “Over the next few weeks, Maddox will be—”
“Is he a friend of yours?” Bea quips.
A slight hesitation. “He is.”
Though I manage to keep the “aha!” from my face, Bea makes no such effort. “Really?”
“Maddox and I met at seminary.”
Maddox attended seminary? And yet worked in Corporate America?
Bea turns to Maddox. “You’re a pastor?”
He holds up thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “That close.”
Bea has another “aha!” moment. “That close?”
He winks. “Kicked out of seminary in my third year.”
She wasn’t expecting that—nor were the rest of us, as evidenced by her stunned silence and Chip’s dropped jaw, which reveals a mouthful of half-chewed pastel mints. As for Stephano, there’s tension on his face one doesn’t usually see; however, when he catches me watching him, he smiles.
Flutter, flutter, I melt like butter. Not that I have a crush on him.
I drag my attention back to Maddox, and when he raises his eyebrows, I realize I’m smiling all over the place. I narrow my gaze. Where were we? Oh! Right. Kicked out of seminary. Whatever he did, it had to have been bad.
Pastor Paul clears his throat. “Maddox decided to answer a different calling, one which not only took him to the top of his profession, but proved of great worth when a mutual friend enlisted him to turn around his dying church in Knoxville.”
More good-ol’-boy stuff. Momentarily overcome with smugness that causes an image of Bea’s face to rise, I wince. Did you forget about your agreement to work with and not against Pastor Paul?
“And what profession are we talking about?” Bea asks.
Pastor Paul hesitates, and I know the reason. “Maddox specializes in—”
“Marketing.” All eyes swivel to Maddox. “That’s my specialty.”
Color spreads to Bea’s ears. “Is that what we’re doing now? Marketing God? Oh, I know it’s the trend to turn houses of God into businesses—and don’t you shake your head at me, Harriet Evans—but I’ll tell you right now that those who built this church won’t stand for it!”
Harriet leans near and lays a frail, brown hand atop Bea’s fair, liver-spotted one. “Now, Bea, let’s not be hasty—”
“Hasty! Me?” She jabs an arthritic finger in the direction of Pastor Paul. “He’s the one who wants to chuck my organ.”
So Bea will be grateful to retire those arthritic joints, will she, Harriet?
I sigh. While it’s widely known how much her hands pain her, playing the organ is too much a part of her life for her to quietly step down.
Bea whips around and gives me the finger jab. “Your father would roll over in his grave were he dead.”
I jerk back.
“And your mother too, were she also dead.”
Beside me, Joe shifts in his chair and frowns at the ceiling, as if trying to make sense of Bea’s words.
Avoiding Maddox, though I’d bet my tattoos he’s looking at me, I glance at Oona, who’s as still as a sheet hung out on a windless day. Head angled, arms crossed over her chest, she stares at First Grace’s organist with a minimally rumpled brow.
“Does he have any idea, young lady?” Bea demands.
I clear my throat. “Sorry?”
“Are you keeping your father apprised of these shenanigans?”
She knows I’m not. Of course, not for lack of her encouragement. I’m often tempted to run to my father, but communication is limited where he and my mother serve as missionaries. Thus, I’m given time to cool down, during which I conclude that not only is it wrong to worry him but he’s no longer the pastor of First Grace. Too, since ending my rebellion nearly eight years ago, I’ve worked hard to prove I’m no longer a child who needs to cling to her daddy’s leg. Fortunately, God’s lap is big enough for me—when I avail myself of it.
“Well?” Bea prompts. “Does he know what’s going on behind his back?”
All eyes are on me, everyone curious to know if the preacher’s kid is tattling.
“He knows what’s going on,” Pastor Paul says in a calm voice, “because it’s not going on behind his back.”
Hoping my silence isn’t misinterpreted as guilt, I watch as Bea snaps her head around. However, before she can challenge him further, he says, “I know I’ve pushed too hard in some areas, but when Ken Bisset presented me as his replacement, it was with a mind toward reviving First Grace, not maintaining the shrinking status quo.”
Bea opens her mouth, but out of it comes Maddox’s voice—at least, it momentarily appears that way. “Excuse me.”
We look to where he clasps his hands atop the table.
“I understand there are issues that need to be addressed with regard to First Grace’s future, but the purpose of today’s meeting is to prepare for tomorrow’s service.”
“Maddox is right.” Pastor Paul retrieves his copy of the agenda. “There will be time for discussion, but now let’s focus on tomorrow’s service.”
“Which brings us back to my organ,” Bea says.
A groan goes around the room.
I dream of that first tattoo and how I yelped and buried my head between my knees. I dream of that first cigarette and how I hacked and tried to clear the taste from my mouth. I dream of my first rock concert and how I spent two hours with my fingers jammed in my ears while moving my body in such a way as to convey I was “into” it. I dream of teeth-baring drums and electric guitars circling a trembling organ. I dream of curly hair. Light brown—
Which does not belong in my dreams!
I dream of our stained-glass Jesus that soars higher than the tallest building… that reaches arms wide…
But then I hear a deep-throated roar, and a motorcycle bursts through the stained glass, sending sharp pieces of Jesus flying toward me.
Someone cries out, and only when I awaken to find myself sitting up in bed do I realize it was me. And the shattered Jesus was a dream. A dream made terrible by the intrusion of the real world.
Beyond my window, a motorcycle rumbles down Red Sea Lane, and a glance at my digital clock shows it’s pushing ten p.m. Bless Jack’s grandson for visiting, but doesn’t he know how important sleep is to senior adults? Not to mention me?
Fortunately, he’s quick to cut the engine, returning Red Sea to its peaceful silence.
I drag the pillow from beneath my head, then over it, only to recoil at the hard bump into which I turn my face.
Oh Lord, not some vile insect.
I flick on the light and smile when a white Jelly Belly comes into focus—an unexpected treat. Popping it in my mouth, I snap off the light and lie back to savor the flavor of coconut. Fifteen minutes later, following a search through the bedcovers that turns up no more Jelly Bellys, I stare through the dark and try to comfort my sleeplessness with the promise that Jack’s grandson is going to hear about this.
Harri’s Log: • Day of Invasion (drums and guitars)
• 5 days until a rerun of The Coroner
• 27 days until Jelly Belly replenishment (holding up well—sort of)
• 211 days until the completion of Bible #8
It’s the moment I’ve dreaded: congregation meets drums, guitars, and electric keyboard. Though years ago my father and the board resisted the pressure to move toward a contemporary form of worship, it has arrived. Now the question is, what will become of First Grace when it tosses out tradition with the dirty bath water? Might it cause a split? Or will the older set merely drift away as the younger set did all those years ago?
I watch the reaction of those entering the sanctuary—ranging from the older members who appear unsettled, to the younger ones who appear excited. This could be bad. After all, as a seminary professor once put it, the music ministry is the “war department of the church.”