“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he said to Delores as he passed her desk.
The secretary was working the crossword puzzle that appeared in the local paper and didn’t look up.
“Don’t forget, I need to leave early for my appointment at the beauty shop,” she said.
The grass in front of the new sanctuary had been freshly mowed, but the flower beds looked ragged. He walked behind the old sanctuary. To his right was the church cemetery. Small, weathered headstones streaked with gray filled most of the older section. The newer plots, with larger, more impressive monuments, were over a slight rise in the ground. The old cemetery needed major work.
Just beyond the cemetery lay Little Creek, swollen to springtime levels, but still not much more than a steady stream. During dry spells in summer, the creek dwindled to a trickle, prompting the Baptists down the road to remark that a few drops of water was enough to keep the Little Creek congregation going. That, and the support of a handful of stalwart families, had sustained the church through the generations since its founding shortly after the Civil War.
Trees lined the water, but on the church side, a short path led to an opening that had served as a watering hole for horses and mules when the members of the congregation came to church in wagons. A small spring nourished the creek at the spot, and Mike enjoyed watching the bubbles rise to the surface as the water forced its way past the smooth rocks on the bottom. He dipped his hand into the cold water and rubbed it on his face. He felt doubly refreshed—the water on his cheeks, a tangible sense of blessing in his soul.
Mike stepped away from the creek and looked at the church. It was a beautiful setting with the wooded hills in the background. Joy, like the water below the ground, rose to the surface of his consciousness. Mike’s call to ministry had survived the cross-examination of those who doubted. Now, after the upheaval of leaving his law practice and three years of seminary training, it had brought him to a pleasant place.
“Thank You, Lord,” he said, then paused before saying, “Thank You, Papa.”
Mike smiled and shook his head at Sam Miller’s method of addressing the Almighty. Casual familiarity with God might work for an old man who ran a lawncare business, but not for him.
DELORES LEFT THE CHURCH FOR HER HAIR APPOINTMENT AT 3:00 p.m. Shortly after she left, Nathan Goode stuck his head into Mike’s office. The unmarried twenty-five-year-old, part-time choir director and youth minister often stopped by the church on Monday afternoons to see Mike after finishing his regular job as music teacher at the local high school. The young man’s black hair crept down his neck, and he had a closely trimmed goatee. Close up, the holes that had once housed multiple earrings could still be seen; however, he’d transitioned from nonconformist to upwardly mobile professional, using his salary from the church to make the payments on a silver BMW.
“Any complaints come in today?” Nathan asked.
“All quiet.”
“I wasn’t sure about using the alternate tune for the Doxology. It was a pretty big gamble. I watched Mrs. Harcourt. She kept sticking her finger in her ear. I’m not sure if she was trying to clean it out or stop it up.”
“The Harcourts left town for Florida after the service and didn’t give any feedback. They’ll be gone three weeks and won’t remember what happened by the time they return. Are you going to try out something new this Sunday?”
“No, I’m going to use a high school flute player for the offertory. That should be tame enough.”
“Okay.”
“And I have an anthem that dates back a few hundred years. Can you recruit Peg for choir practice this week? This piece has an alto solo made for her voice.”
“It might work if I give her a choice between the choir and nursery duty.”
In addition to painting classes, Peg had received classical voice training in college and could sing along with the opera CDs she listened to in the car. Mike’s taste in music ran more toward Bruce Springsteen.
“Oh, and I enjoyed your sermon,” Nathan said.
“You don’t have to say that.” Mike smiled. “Your job is secure, at least until Mrs. Harcourt gets back into town.”
“No, seriously. I’m learning a lot. Your explanation of God’s sovereignty put a different spin on some things for me.”
“He’s the conductor. Our job is to follow.”
“Yeah, I appreciated the analogy. I trained under conductors who mixed two doses of terror with three scoops of fear. They were motivated by ego and pride, not love and compassion. I’ve been thinking about what you said off and on all day.”