Read And the Shofar Blew Online
Authors: Francine Rivers
And the Shofar Blew (13 page)
Stephen Decker was surprised to see Paul Hudson enter Charlie’s Diner at dinnertime. If Stephen had a wife like Eunice at home, he wouldn’t be eating in a café, even if all she could cook were hot dogs and macaroni and cheese. Stephen gave him a nod and was surprised when Hudson approached his booth.
“Mind if I join you?”
Surprised, Stephen gathered up the paperwork with the final details of the Atherton project. “Have a seat.” He raised his brows. “Did you and your wife have a spat?”
Paul laughed. “No. Actually, I came here to talk with you.”
“Pastoral visit. Sounds serious.” He hadn’t been near a bar. So that couldn’t be the reason for this tête-à-tête.
“I need a few good men to serve as deacons.”
Stephen leaned back. “And you think I qualify?” He laughed.
“Yes, I do.”
Eunice must not have shared their little chat with her husband, which raised his opinion of her another notch. “You don’t know anything about me except what I do for a living, and that I can do a reasonable job at building a display cabinet. Or was that what you had in mind? Day laborers for the church who’d work evenings and Saturdays.”
Pastor Paul made no pretenses. “Labor, yes, but also men who love the Lord and are willing to work with me to make Centerville Christian Church the church it could be.”
“And what kind of church is that?”
Paul leaned forward, eager to tell him. “A center for Christian worship for Centerville as well as the surrounding areas, a place where families can come and be involved and nurtured in their faith, a place that will set people on fire for the Lord and encourage them to go out and fulfill the great commission of making disciples of all nations.”
Whoa. Paul was on a fast horse.
“We have every kind of religion in the Central Valley, from Islam to Buddhism to New Age, Stephen. And right now, there are a pathetic few Christian churches doing outreach programs to lead nonbelievers to salvation. We need younger men with new and progressive ideas that can help us build the kingdom of God, and bring the church into the twenty-first century.”
Intrigued, Stephen closed his file and dropped it into his open briefcase. He recognized ambition when he saw it, but as far as he could tell there was nothing wrong with being ambitious about building a church. Where would he be now without the Lord? At the Wagon Wheel. What would he be? A drunk. “I’m all for giving back to the Lord.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“But before we go further, there’s something that could eliminate me as a deacon.”
Paul frowned. “What would that be?”
“I’m a recovering alcoholic. I was in a rehab center for six months. While I was there, my wife divorced me and was given custody of our daughter.” He saw the troubled look come into Pastor Paul’s eyes, could almost hear the wheels in his brain spinning and trying to find a way to renege on his proposal.
“How long since you had a drink?”
“Eleven months, one week, and three days.” Just so the pastor knew it wasn’t easy staying sober.
“The Bible says a deacon shouldn’t be a man given to drink, and since you’re not drinking, I can’t see any reason why you can’t serve as a deacon. If everyone had to have lived a perfect life in order to serve the Lord, there wouldn’t be anyone serving.” He grinned. “What do you say? Do you want to be in on planning the future of Centerville Christian?”
“Okay,” Stephen said slowly. “You can count me in.”
“Great!” Paul extended his hand to shake Stephen’s. “Welcome aboard.”
Stephen felt as though he had just made some kind of contract with the pastor.
“I’m preparing the roster tomorrow, and am planning to call a church membership meeting following the service on Sunday morning. The congregation has to take a vote on it, but I don’t see that there’s going to be a problem. As soon as those details are taken care of, we can have our first meeting and see where we’re going.”
A regular mover and shaker.
Sally appeared with Stephen’s salad. “Are you staying for supper, Pastor Paul?”
“If Stephen doesn’t mind company. Dutch, of course.”
“Nonsense,” Sally said. “Whatever you want is on the house.” She left and came back with a menu.
Paul smiled. “I’ve heard Charlie’s meat loaf is terrific.”
“His steaks are better,” she said.
“Steak it is. Medium-rare.”
“Mushrooms?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“You got it.” Sally called the order to Charlie as soon as she was behind the counter.
Stephen found himself curious about Paul Hudson. He was young to be heading a church. “How did you end up at Centerville Christian?”
Paul told him about the previous pastor’s collapse and the phone call from the dean of the college he and Eunice had attended. “I was working for a big church in the Midwest at the time. But I knew God was calling me to this post. When we arrived, I got to know people and felt the hunger in them. They hadn’t been fed for a long time. Not that Henry Porter didn’t try to fulfill his responsibilities. He did, admirably. The parishioners loved him, loved him so much they almost worked him to death. They just needed a younger man.”
“And they sure got one. How old are you, anyway?”
Paul told him. “I’m young, but not inexperienced. I was a PK.”
“Preacher’s kid.” Stephen had heard the expression. “Did you go the route that some do?”
“Diving off the deep end into the ocean, you mean?” Paul chuckled. “I thought about it a few times, but didn’t dare go through with it. I never wanted to bring embarrassment on my father or my mother. And, even more than that, I wanted to please the Lord. I gave my life to Him when I was seven years old.”
“Did your father baptize you?”
“No. Actually, my mother did. Well, my dad did later. Officially. I can’t recall where my father was when I told my mother I’d decided to give my life to the Lord. She took me straightaway into the bathroom and baptized me in the tub, clothes and all.” He laughed. “She’s always been a little unorthodox.”
“Well, it must’ve taken,” Stephen said, laughing too.
“My father had me re-baptized in front of the congregation on Easter Sunday.”
Stephen wondered why Paul’s expression became suddenly solemn and withdrawn. Paul caught himself and continued. “I grew up seeing how a church is built. My father started with a handful of people and built the congregation into thousands. Maybe you’ve heard of him. David Hudson.”
“Sorry. Can’t say that I have.”
“They televise his services. And my grandfather was also a pastor. Not a successful one, but he tried, I guess. He was a traveling evangelist who did tent revivals in little towns across the country.”
“So you come by the gift naturally.”
“The gift?”
“Speaking. You must know you’re the reason so many new people are coming to check out Centerville Christian.”
Paul was clearly pleased by the praise, though he tried to downplay it. “I can’t think of anything else I’d rather do than work for the Lord.”
“That’s as it should be.”
Sally brought Paul’s salad, and then served their steaks. They lingered over dinner, talking about the church, the Atherton house and other projects Stephen had built, programs Paul had been involved in and wanted to start up at Centerville Christian.
Stephen let Paul do most of the talking. The young pastor had a dream—a big one—of building the kingdom for the glory of God. A spark caught fire in Stephen. Maybe that was what he needed to still the restlessness in him. He needed to work at something that occupied him longer than the six months to a year it took to build a house or office building. He knew Paul was speaking of people when he talked about building the kingdom, but if he succeeded, the congregation would soon reach the boundaries of the small church building in which they were now meeting. Multiple services would help. For a while.
Sooner or later, Centerville Christian would need a bigger facility.
What would it be like to design and build a church? What a challenge that would be!
The more he listened to Paul, the more excited he was to be a part of what was happening at the church. He and Paul might come from diver-gent backgrounds, but they had one major thing in common: they both wanted to build something that would last.
1992
E
UNICE FOUGHT the physical exhaustion and depression that invariably hit her at Christmastime. She didn’t know how she would make it through to New Year’s. It was her third cantata and rehearsals were going well, but there had been the usual squabbling among choir members. Tensions always mounted as the day of the performance approached.
She’d had to remind several participants again of the hours of labor two senior saints had put into making the beautiful costumes. They should be thanked and not treated to further complaints. The point was not to put on a Broadway production, but to present the gospel. Unsaved members of the community would be coming, and they needed to learn the true meaning of Christmas: the birth of God’s only begotten Son, Jesus Christ. Yet, week after week, the same three women clustered and grumbled, their attitudes and words far from the angelic presences they were supposed to portray in the pageant.
Thankfully the rehearsal was over. Her head was pounding. She felt sick to her stomach. When the last person departed, Eunice shut off the lights, locked the fellowship hall, and went into the sanctuary. She sank to her knees and tried to pray, but every thought was less than honoring to the Lord. Should she come before Him and grumble about those who grumbled?
Oh, Lord, Lord . . . I used to love Christmas. When I was a little girl, we sang
carols for the pure pleasure of it. No one cared that we were dressed in clothes
purchased from a thrift store. They listened with delight! I remember being invited
in for hot cocoa and homemade cookies.
Eunice sang softly to the Lord. “Hark! the herald angels sing, ‘Glory to the newborn King . . .’ ”
She sang the same songs women in this congregation were going to sing in two days, unless three of them quit in a snit because they couldn’t get over the size of their wings or how much glitter was glued to their white robes! “We’re supposed to glow!” Why couldn’t they get past themselves long enough to see that this cantata wasn’t about how they looked onstage, but what God had done for mankind? Everyone became so caught up in the sets and costumes and decorations that she couldn’t bring them back to the simplicity and beauty of Christmas. Instead of being a play about the passion of God’s love, it had become a Hollywood production.
Forgive me, Lord; please forgive me. You know the desire of my heart is to
bring You glory, and what I’m seeing is so far from it. I want to love these
women, Lord. I want to love them as You love me. Help me
.
Longing for a few more moments to bask in God’s presence, Eunice went back to the church office and phoned home. Maybe Paul would be willing to give Timmy his bath.
“Where are you?” He sounded frustrated.
“I’m still at church. I was—”
“It’s late, and Timmy needs a bath.”
“I was hoping maybe you could take care of that. It’s not that difficult to fill the tub, Paul.” She tried to instill some humor into her voice.
“I haven’t got time to play games with him—or you. I’min the middle of studying.”
She wanted to say she had just finished a grueling two hours of rehearsal, not to mention dealing with three obstinate, self-centered women who would send her to the funny farm soon. She needed time to pray. She needed time to beg the Lord for His patience and love. “Couldn’t I have a few more minutes? . . . Paul?”
He’d already hung up.
Hurt and angry, Eunice went out the front door of the church, locked the door, and headed for the parsonage. The house was silent, Paul hunkered down in his chair, books and notes scattered around him.
“Where’s Timmy?”
“I sent him to bed.”
“I thought you said he needed a bath.”
“I told him you’d give it to him in the morning.”
“He has school in the morning.”
His eyes darkened. “So get him up early and he can take a shower before you take him.”
She put her satchel of music aside and sat slowly. “What happened?”
“You’ve spoiled him rotten.”
His voice was loud enough to carry through the closed door of Timmy’s bedroom. Did he realize how cruel his words sounded, how condemning? “Paul—”
Paul slammed his book shut. “Eunice, the boy is eight years old, but he whines like a baby. He wants to watch a video. He wants a story. He wants a bath. He wants, wants, wants—”
“He wants time with his father.”
“Don’t give me that. I spend time with him.”
“Five minutes here and there isn’t enough time, Paul. You should know that better than anyone.” She saw the change in his expression and knew she should have said something less volatile, something that didn’t compare him to David Hudson. She might as well have waved a red flag in front of a bull’s face.
“I helped him with his homework last night.” For five minutes before sending him into the kitchen to her.
“I played baseball with him on Saturday.” Until his pager went off ten minutes after they’d gone outside.
“I took him to Charlie’s Diner.” And brought him home in tears less than an hour later because Gerald Boham had called and invited Daddy to a round of golf at the country club.
“If I spent all day, every day with him, it wouldn’t be enough. He can’t seem to get it into his head that
I have responsibilities.”
“You needn’t shout.” Every word stabbed her heart. And the walls were so thin, poor Timmy could hear everything his father said. She watched Paul gather up his papers. “Where are you going?”
“To the church office, where I can get some work done!” He shoved his notes into his briefcase.
“It’s nine-thirty, Paul.”
He headed for the hall closet, where his coat was hung. “Some of us have to work for a living.” He shoved an arm into his coat.
Eunice clenched her hands as he went out the front door, closing it none too quietly behind him. She waited a few minutes, giving him time to change his mind. Then she turned on the porch light.
When she opened Timmy’s bedroom door, she could hear his muffled sobs. She didn’t turn on the light, but sat on the edge of his bed and rubbed his back. “He loves you, Timmy.”
“No, he doesn’t.”
“He loves you very much. It’s just that he’s working so hard.” Places to go and things to do. For the church. He had to set priorities. Unfortunately, Timmy was way down on his list. So was she. After elders’ calls, deacons’ meetings, and parishioners’ needs. “And it’s hardest on him this time of year because . . . ” Timmy rolled over and came into her arms. She held him close, fighting tears as she stroked his back and rocked him tenderly. “Lots of people struggle with Christmas, Timmy. They call Daddy, and he has to be there to counsel them. He’s under a lot of pressure.”
“Will he be home for Christmas?”
“We’ll all be together for services Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.” And in between—unless Paul received a call from a family in crisis. Last year, Paul had been called away from home just as the turkey was being taken from the oven. She and Timmy had eaten alone. Grandma Hudson had called at a little past eight to wish them a blessed Christmas. Eunice had waited one more hour before allowing Timmy to open his packages. She had finally put him to bed at eleven. Paul had come in so late he was too tired to get up and spend the morning with them. Still, he had risen in time to prepare for the Christmas Day services.
Would this year be the same?
“Did you say your prayers, sweetheart?” Timmy shook his head against her shoulder. “What do you say we do that right now while we’re thinking about it?”
They prayed softly together, thanking God for His love and mercy , His provision and guidance, and thanking Him especially for His Son, Jesus. Timmy prayed for her and the cantata. He prayed for Samuel and Abigail. He prayed for Grandma and Grandpa Hudson. He prayed for his friends in school and his teacher. He prayed for peace in the world. “In Jesus’ name, amen.”
“And Daddy,” Eunice said softly, prompting. “God bless Daddy.”
Wiping his nose on his sleeve, Timmy lay back against his pillows and turned his back to her. He pulled his teddy bear close. The night-light from the hall cast a soft glow in the room. She saw his shoulders were trembling and knew he was crying again, trying to stifle the sounds against his worn stuffed animal. It broke her heart. “I love you, Timmy. And Daddy loves you, too.” She stroked Timmy’s soft hair. It was sandy brown, like Paul’s. Timmy drew his knees up and burrowed his head deeper into the covers. Heart aching, throat tight and hot, Eunice leaned down and kissed him. “You are so precious to me. I love you so very, very much, Timmy.” She kissed him again. “You are God’s blessing to Daddy and me.” She ran her hand over his hair again. Rising, she rearranged the covers so that he would be warm and closed the door quietly on her way out.
Sitting in the living room, Eunice covered her face and wept. Paul had more compassion for rebellious members of his church than he did for his own son. Or her, for that matter. How many times had she asked for his counsel regarding grumbling, gossiping parishioners, and he would hurriedly tell her to be patient, hear them out, and bend as much as possible so that they would enjoy their service for the Lord? And then out the door he’d go again. Did Paul want her to treat these women with kid gloves because all three were elders’ wives? Was she supposed to make special rules for special people? How could Paul command her to bend for them and then refuse to bend at all for his own son? Did Paul even listen? Couldn’t he understand that Timmy acted up because he desperately wanted his father’s attention? Negative attention was better than no attention at all. Paul always managed to rearrange his schedule so that he could have lunch or play golf with one of his elders. Why not for Timmy? Why not for her?
Do this, Eunice. Do that, Eunice
.
Paul had told her to form a choir, and then told her to organize a cantata for Christmas and another for Easter. Even as she obeyed, he made it clear in a dozen ways that she should not expect his help as she tried to accomplish his goals. He didn’t have the time. He had more important things to do. Places to go and people to meet.
She kept telling herself that Paul was doing all this work “for the kingdom,” but sometimes a betraying thought would grip her heart. Which kingdom? He was making and carrying out plans so fast she wondered how he had time to ask God’s counsel, let alone hear it.
And yet, everything seemed to be moving ahead just as he said it would. Paul took every success as a sign from God that he was on the right track, that he was accomplishing what God wanted, that his methods were appropriate to the work God had given him. Centerville Christian Church was growing so fast Eunice didn’t know many of the people now attending on a regular basis. Paul did two Sunday services now, and he had the backing of the elders to add staff. Reka Wilson, a retired office manager, had offered to take on the job of church secretary at minimum wage. Over the past month, Reka had fielded calls and saved Paul countless hours of paperwork. Eunice had hoped Paul would be able to spend more time with her and Timmy, and more time writing wonderful Christ-centered Bible studies like he had during his senior year in college.
Instead, Paul scheduled more speaking engagements. “The only way I can be an influence in the community is if people know who I am and what I stand for.” Paul had become well known and well liked in the community. When the mayor came to services, Eunice noticed how Paul cut back on the number of quotations from the Bible and brought in more stories and illustrations, excusing the softened message by saying he wanted people to come back to church again, not come once and then never come back because “they’ve been beaten over the head with some dry lesson on doctrine.” And Paul had canceled the Wednesday night Bible study several months ago, because so few people turned out in the middle of the week.
The clock chimed eleven.
Ashamed, Eunice realized she’d spent more than an hour wallowing in self-pity, assessing her husband’s faults without examining her own.
Lord, please remold my thinking, reshape my heart, burn away the anger
that’s threatening to sink roots of bitterness into my marriage and my life.
She went into the kitchen, warmed a cup of milk in the microwave, and sat at the table where she and Timmy ate most of their meals alone.
Lord, You are my shepherd. You have given me everything I need. Your
strength and power, Your love and guidance keep me on the path You’ve laid out
for me. Protect me, Lord. Keep the enemy away, Father, please. I’m vulnerable
right now, Jesus. I know in my heart it’s who You are and not what I do that’s
important. But it’s so easy to get caught up in the show of it all. Let my life be a
light by which others can see You. I want to do what’s right, but sometimes it
seems there are so many things going on, so many irons in the fire, I don’t even
know where to start.
The front door opened.
Eunice put her hands around the warm mug of milk. She heard the soft catch as the coat closet door was opened and then closed. Footsteps on the linoleum. A weary sigh. “There was a message on the answering machine from Marvin Lockford. LaVonne is feeling unwell and may not be able to be in the performance.”
“That’s just as well.” She was tired of the struggle. She imagined Jessie Boham and Shirl Wenke would be calling sometime tomorrow with the same lame excuse.
“Just as well? What do you mean, ‘just as well’?”
Lord, please don’t let me speak in anger.
“They have the wrong idea about the cantata.”
“It was up to you to give them the
right
idea, Eunice. Do you have any idea the trouble you’ve caused me by not handling this situation with more delicacy?”
“You’re blaming me for something I have no power to change.”
“You’re in charge. The buck stops with you.”
She wasn’t about to throw his failures in his face. “All right, Paul. Then as the one ‘in charge,’ I have this to say: The point of the cantata is not the size of LaVonne’s wings or the amount of glitter on her robe, but the proclamation of the birth of our Savior and Lord, Jesus Christ.”