And the Shofar Blew (11 page)

CHAPTER 5

A
S EUNICE came out of the parsonage and headed for the church to do her piano practice, Paul was just pulling away from the curb in their Toyota. She waved, but he didn’t notice. He’d been up since five, practicing his speech for the Rotary Club.

“Daddy!” Timmy waved.

Eunice crouched down next to her son. “Let’s pray for Daddy, Timmy.” She put her forehead against his. “Lord Jesus, we know You love us and watch over us. We know You want us to obey You in everything we do. Please be with Daddy today. Give him the words You want him to speak to the men and women at the Rotary Club meeting today. Let Your love shine out of Daddy so that all the people who hear him will want to be Your children. In Jesus’ precious name we pray.”

“Amen,” Timmy said.

She kissed him and stood up. He ran ahead of her to the steps of the church, his arms outstretched like an airplane. Laughing, she followed. She reached into her pocket for the key, but saw the door was already ajar. It wasn’t like Paul to leave the church unlocked when he wasn’t in his office. She noticed a metallic tan truck parked on the side street near the corner. “Wait, Timmy!” Too late, her son disappeared inside the door.

“Who are you?” she heard Timmy ask.

Hurrying up the steps, Eunice pushed the door wide open. She found a tall man wearing brown work boots, faded Levi’s, and a plaid work shirt muscling a dolly carrying a beautiful display cabinet. He glanced back and she smiled in relief. “This is Stephen Decker, Timmy.”

Timmy walked closer. “Whatcha doing?”

“Putting in a display case for the church’s Bible.”

“It’s beautiful, Mr. Decker.” Eunice admired the curved legs carved with grape leaves and clusters of grapes.

He straightened and ran his hand over the wood framing the glass top. “Call me Stephen.”

Her heart did a little fillip at the tone of his voice. She looked into his eyes briefly and then lowered her head, putting her hand lightly on Timmy’s head. “Maybe we should come back later and let Mr. Decker finish his work.”

Timmy moved away from her. “Mommy practices piano every morning.” He stopped and pointed. “You have an owie.”

“An owie?”

“What did you do to your thumb?”

“Oh!” Enlightened, Stephen Decker grinned down at him. “I smashed it.”

“I smashed my finger in a door once.”

“I smashed my thumb with a hammer.” Stephen pulled the hammer from his tool belt. “This one, as a matter of fact.”

“Why?”

“Well, not on purpose, I can tell you. I wasn’t paying attention to what I was doing. You have to pay close attention when you’re using a hammer.”

“Did it hurt?”

“It hurt like—” he stopped, glanced at Eunice—“yeah. It hurt. A lot.”

“You need a Band-Aid. Mommy has Sesame Street Band-Aids.”

“It’s a nice offer, Timmy,” Decker said, and then looked at her with a broad grin. “But I don’t think I’d have the nerve to show up at the job site wearing a Big Bird Band-Aid.”

Eunice laughed. “I can see how that might cause some difficulties.”

“I’d never live it down.”

She withdrew a step. “Come on, Timmy.”

“Don’t put off your piano practice on account of me, Mrs. Hudson. I’d enjoy listening while I finish up here.”

For the first time in a long time, Eunice felt shy about her playing. “I make a lot of mistakes.”

He smiled. “I promise not to tell anyone.”

“As long as you promise to pay attention to what you’re doing.”

He slipped the hammer back into his work belt like a gunfighter holstering his gun. “You bet.”

She took Timmy’s hand and went into the sanctuary. Once her son was settled with some toys she kept in a basket under the front pew, she sat at the piano and began her scales. It had been cold out this morning, an autumn snap in the air, and her fingers were stiff. She ran through all the scales and then went to chords, then runs. Then she just played whatever came to her, bits and pieces of hymns, classical movements, popular songs, Broadway musicals, and some of her own compositions as well. She loved the challenge of making it all flow from one part to the next so that it blended without seams. Paul called her practices “improv-venue.”

He hadn’t listened to her practice since becoming a pastor. No time. And since arriving at Centerville Christian, his only real interest in her music was to make it work in the service. Paul wanted her to play music that appealed to the people he was trying to attract to the church. Several of the senior members of the church would then come to her and complain, gently, about the music she played and ask why she wasn’t playing the hymns she had when she’d first come. She couldn’t bring herself to say Paul had told her the kind of music to play. That would only exacerbate the tension between her husband and some of the older members of the congregation. Worse, it would make her feel like she was protecting herself rather than standing beside her husband in his mission to serve the church the best way he knew how.

“Sounds sad.”

Startled, she saw Stephen Decker sitting in the second pew. She lifted her hands from the keys.

“You looked pretty caught up in it.”

Her face went hot. “I thought you’d be gone by now.”

“Hoped I’d be gone, you mean.”

“No, I didn’t mean . . . ”

“I should’ve kept my mouth shut so I could’ve enjoyed the rest of the concert. What were you playing?”

“A little of this and that.”

“Never heard of it.”

She wished she didn’t blush so easily. “And likely never will again.”

“Ah. You make it up as you go.”

“It’s the way I warm up.” She shrugged. “I just play whatever music comes to mind.”

“I recognized a lot of it, but not the last portion. Who wrote that music?”

“I can’t remember.” She looked away and opened the book of music on the stand.

“Sure you do. You’re just too shy to say it came from you.”

She watched him walk back up the aisle. He troubled her. For one thing, he was far too attractive, and there was something about the way he looked at her. Refocusing on the music in front of her, she began to play again, following the notes on the page this time. The song was contemporary and designed for praise and worship in more charismatic services than the seniors at Centerville Christian were used to hearing. She’d questioned Paul’s choice. “They’ll get used to it,” Paul had told her. She agreed it was a beautiful song, but so were any one of the four hundred hymns in the books set out in each pew rack. The new song was so easy; she had it memorized in a few minutes. The words were clear, concise, and simple. A child would be able to sing the stanza by heart after the first Sunday.

“Boring!” Stephen Decker called loudly from the back of the church.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. It’s repetitious.”

“What do you mean, repetitious?” Annoyed, she wished he would leave and let her practice in peace.

“Repetitious, as in repeating the same thing over and over again.”

“The words . . . ”

“I know the words.”

She put her hands on her jean-clad knees. “It’s the latest music, Mr. Decker.”

“Latest doesn’t necessarily mean the greatest, Mrs. Hudson.”

“It appeals to the younger generation.” She felt the color mount into her cheeks as he laughed.

“Thirty-four and I’m part of the older generation, huh, Mrs. Hudson? But I guess to a twenty-what-year-old, that must seem over the hill and sliding into the grave.”

“It spells out the gospel message in basic terms. It’s meant to give people something to take home with them. Something they can remember and think about during the week. People have so many things to do these days. It’s not like fifty years ago when the church was people’s social life and singing hymns was enjoyable.”

“I didn’t know we came to church for enjoyment.”

“Not entirely.” She was uncomfortable with the tack the conversation was taking. “Don’t you enjoy being a Christian?”

“Enjoyment
isn’t a term I’d use. Trying to turn the tables on me, Mrs. Hudson?”

“Just curious.”

“So am I. Why don’t you play some of your own work?”

She shook her head. “It’s not good enough.”

“It’s better than what you were just playing.”

“Well, thank you.” She dismissed his praise easily.

“Just chicken, I’m thinking.”

She’d never met a more disturbing man. “I’ve never finished anything, if you want to know.”

“Why not? You don’t strike me as someone who would give up easily.”

She tried to think of a response quickly. “I haven’t given up.” She’d put it aside. Paul needed her. Timmy needed her. “There’s just not time right now. Someday. Maybe.”

“When your husband’s retired from the ministry and your son’s grownup and moved away?”

She lifted her head at his dry tone. He was standing at the end of the church aisle, arms crossed, leaning his hip against the end of a pew. Why was he baiting her? “My music is not as important as my husband or my son.”

“Good cop-out. I guess there’s no way for people to stay married and still be all God meant them to be as individuals.” He straightened. “Sorry to have interrupted your practice.” He picked up his jacket and left.

What he said bothered her. Sometimes she did feel restless. She felt a changing tide in her life and in her marriage. Every evening, Paul seemed to have a meeting scheduled. He accepted invitations from any organization that asked him to speak, viewing them as opportunities from the Lord to “get the word out.” But the word about what? The gospel? Or Centerville Christian? Or were they still one and the same? Sometimes she wondered.

Paul was driven to build the church, but she wasn’t sure what he meant by that anymore. Shouldn’t his wife and son be a priority?

She missed Paul. She missed the times when they would sit and talk about the Lord and what they had learned in their morning devotions together. She missed the walks they had taken early in their marriage. She missed sleeping in on Saturday morning with Paul’s arms around her. She flipped a page in her sheet music. She shouldn’t feel sorry for herself. It would only make matters worse.

Her fingers moved over the keys. Scales again, with one hand, up and down, higher and higher, then with both hands. The music on the stand blurred.
Oh, Lord, Lord . . .
She had no words to pray, but her fingers moved, speaking through her music, from major to minor key, soft runs, and a melody she knew she wouldn’t even try to put onto paper because it was only between her and the Lord.

And there lay Timmy, on his stomach beneath the front pew, chin resting on his crossed arms while he watched and listened.

As Samuel ushered Hollis into his den, he wondered what complaint his old friend would lodge this time. Abby was in the kitchen preparing coffee and refreshments. She always thought coffee and cookies could cure anything. Sometimes she was right.

Closing the door, Samuel offered Hollis his leather chair. It was worn and comfortable and much easier to get out of than the rocker Abby preferred. Hollis thanked him, eased himself into the chair, and set his cane aside. “I’ve had it, Sam. I’m done.”

“Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

“Nothing I can put my finger on.” Hollis shook his head. “I’m just tired of feeling useless and old. He doesn’t listen to us. You know that as well as I do.”

“He’s young.”

“Being young is no excuse for disrespect.”

“I’m not trying to make excuses for Paul. But consider. He showed respect for what you had to say when he put in the display cabinet in the narthex. And he apologized to you personally, didn’t he?”

“If you can call explaining why he removed the King James Bible an apology. He never actually said he was sorry. And that cabinet . . .”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Sure, it’s beautiful, but he was being expedient, Samuel. The more new people that come into the church, the less that kid is going to feel he has to consider anything we say.”

Samuel was afraid Hollis might be right. “The first thing we have to do is remember he was called here to be our pastor.”

“He acts more like a dictator.”

“Did you and Paul have words again?”

“No.” Hollis looked more hurt than angry. “Maybe it’s what he doesn’t say, or what he does or doesn’t do about what
we
say. I look into his eyes and see impatience. I can almost hear what he’s thinking:
What does this old man
want now?
Well, Sam, I’m tired of fighting. And what am I fighting for anymore? To keep things as they were? I don’t know most of the people coming to church anymore. All new faces.”

“That’s a good thing, Hollis. The church is growing.”

“All
young
faces.” His mouth tightened. “And I’m sure they want
young
elders in keeping with their
young
ideas.”

“They need leadership.”

“They’ve got Paul, their anointed one.”

Samuel frowned, troubled by his words. “We’re all anointed, Hollis. Every believer receives the Holy Spirit.”

“You and I know that, but to hear some talk, Paul Hudson has more of an anointing than the rest of us common folk. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t want to submit himself to his elders. Maybe he has private audiences with God Himself. Maybe he . . . ”

Samuel leaned forward. “Sarcasm isn’t going to help us bring unity.”

“Unity ended the day Henry Porter left Centerville. We were a family as long as he was standing in the pulpit. His sermons might not have drawn the people Hudson’s do, but we never had to wonder if he loved us.”

Abby tapped on the door before entering. She carried a tray in and set it on the desk. She poured coffee, added cream, stirred, and gave the mug to Hollis. “There are some nice pecan nougats here for you, Hollis. I know you like them.”

“Thanks, Abby.” He took one.

Abby quietly left the room, closing the door behind her.

“I’m resigning from the eldership, Samuel.”

“Don’t do that, Hollis, please.” Samuel was sick at heart for all he had expected it. What would happen to the parishioners if there were only two elders remaining to oversee the church? “We have 150 new people coming each Sunday.”

“Most are transfers from other churches. Hudson can tap some of them for service.”

“We don’t know anything about these new people, Hollis.”

“I don’t fit in at Centerville anymore, Sam. And you know it.” He put his coffee aside. He seemed to have no taste for his favorite cookies. “I can’t stand the new music, for another thing. How many times can we sing the same four lines? I feel like I’m singing some Christian mantra. They’re dumbing down the church just like they’re dumbing down America. And before you start defending him, I’ll tell you I’ve heard all the rhetoric behind it. If it’s going to bring new people to Christ, then so be it. But that doesn’t mean I have to sit in a pew and feel assaulted every week.”

“You’ve made up your mind.” The old guard was giving up his post.

“I wrote my letter of resignation and mailed it before coming over.” Hollis couldn’t look him in the eye. “I knew if I waited, you’d talk me out of it again. And it’s time, Samuel.” His eyes were glassy with moisture. He looked away and picked up his coffee mug. His lips shook as he sipped. “I should warn you, Otis has resigned as well.”

Samuel felt as though he’d been punched in the stomach.
Lord, am I to
stand alone in this battle?
“I’m sorry to hear that.” His voice choked. He wondered if it would make any difference to Paul that two-thirds of the elders were leaving the church because of his methods of increasing membership. The younger man appeared to have the hide of a rhinoceros, but Samuel knew from things Eunice had shared with Abby that appearances were often deceiving. Paul Hudson had grown up in the shadow of his famous father. Was that what was driving him so hard? Fear that he wouldn’t make the grade?

Right now, Samuel was more concerned with the old friends who had served with him over the years. “Where will you go for services?”

“Stay right in my own living room, I guess. Can’t drive anymore, and Otis is tied down with Mabel in the condition she’s in.” He gave a brittle laugh. “I guess we’re down to watching TV evangelists. God help us. There are enough of them on every week. The gospel in a box. Send in a donation and get a blessing.”

“There are some good ones, if that’s the route you intend to take, but be careful.”

“Yeah, and the best part is, you never know what shenanigans are going on behind the scenes. All you see are smiling faces in the pews. Probably weed all the misfits out at the door. And then you have the glitzy professional worship team and the main man who speaks like Charlton Heston opening the Red Sea.”

“Why don’t we have a Bible study here? Just for old fogies like us who long for the good old days. I’ll invite Otis and Mabel and a few others who haven’t been coming to church lately.”

“Trying to keep us in the family, Samuel?”

“We
are
family.”

Hollis’s eyes filled. “Sounds good. What day? What time?”

“Any day but Sunday.”

“You’re sticking?”

“Until God says otherwise.”

“Or Paul Hudson gives you the boot.”