Which One of You?
A New Novel by Gary Broughman
(Editor’s note: Each weekend we’ll publish one chapter of the new Christian novel Which One of You? here at Christian Heartbeat.)
Chapter Nine
Summer had come to the Golden Triangle and with it Sagan, home from college.
Home. So often I’d wished to link that word to Sagan’s name. Home with me; home with his mother; home with family; home where it’s safe.
Back in Florida, in the heat of the moment, before we all came to this time of
peace and purpose, home had seemed a distant dream for Sagan, for his mother
Becky, and more and more, for me too. But there’s nothing like the birth of a new dream to relieve the dying process of an old
dream. The land in between is where nightmares take hold. That’s where you don’t want to be.
So to hold off the nightmares I held on to that old dream -- Carolyn and I
again living as man and wife, all of us back to what we were: A happy family
that included Sagan. Old dreams die hard, and I thanked God for it. Who needs
nightmares?
Watching the first cars pull into the parking lot that first “relieved of duty” Sunday turned me inside out. Sunday morning had been life in real time for me.
All the planning was over and, as the song says, “now is the time for worship.” Sunday morning was my time to shine; it was no secret then and it’s no secret now, when it comes to preaching I have the gift. I don’t mean to brag, because it’s God’s gift. But facts are facts--when it comes to preaching, I’ve got chops.
After seeing those first few cars arrive, I went inside, closed the door and
the shades. I imagined the sanctuary filling up, a few knowing what had
happened but most not. I could hear the troubled murmurs as the word started to
spread, more questions than answers, and then the surprise when Charley walked
out to lead the service. What would he tell them? I had until Monday, so surely
he wouldn’t say anything definite. The rumors would likely contain more info than what he’d give them.
I count myself lucky. My time in no man’s land, the nightmare region between dreams, lasted exactly one day -- that one
Sunday. I’ve seen depression ravage the strong, and having seen it, I’m pretty sure I’ve never had it. But that day, baby, I certainly had the blues. I hid out all
day, lights off, blinds drawn, darkness inside and out. Nightfall couldn’t come soon enough. Eventually I fell asleep and when the sun rose, it was
Monday and I was healed, or at least beginning to heal. Before my first cup of
coffee, before lacing up my running shoes, sitting naked at the computer, I
sent an e-mail to Charley giving him my decision. I could tell you what I said;
it was respectful and eloquent. I think, if I remember correctly, I quoted
Luther on the dangers of going against one‘s conscience. But hell, it doesn’t matter exactly what I wrote. The point is, we both knew when I left his office
Friday morning I wasn’t about to dump Sagan back into the system. They’d had their chance with him and failed. Now it was time to try what I call the
Jesus method: Love.
For the moment, I was stumped on how to move forward. Unlike that sermon I
couldn’t write, this situation didn’t figure to resolve itself. I mean, I wasn’t planning to kill myself, so I had to come up with some kind of next step.
Where do I go from here? I had closed the door on the old me, but was still
waiting for the new me. Who am I? What is my mission? Why do I get up in the
morning. How do I support myself? Where will I live? If I’m not pastor here, how long can I stay in the pastor’s house? Can I still get Carolyn back? What should I do next? Please God, tell
me, where do I go from here? Hell, forget about where I go next month or next
week or tomorrow, tell me God, what should I do today?
Then I remembered Wesley’s words and it calmed me down a bit. I still needed answers, but at least it was
a start:
“Do all the good you can, by all the means you can, in all the ways you can, in
all the places you can, at all the times you can, to all the people you can, as
long as ever you can.”
Yea, that was me -- a genuine “do gooder.” At least I hoped that’s what I was. The alternative was “genuinely out of my mind.” Fact is, I’d always seen myself as out to do good but I’d never been a freelancer, without portfolio. I was used to being the Reverend
Dietrich Waymire, pastor of a specific church on a specific street. Brick or
mortar. Easy to identify for me and everyone else. Now it was time to see if I
could create an image out of whole cloth. Truth born from my existence, instead
of from my position.
I called Sagan’s mother’s house but voice mail answered. I took my time thinking Sagan might pick up,
but no such luck. I finished dressing … all the good you can, in all the places you can … and drove north to Daytona where I thought I’d help with the homeless feeding at the big church downtown. I parked in the
courthouse lot across from the state social services building. Right away the
scene looked wrong: nearly 11 a.m. and no one in line. By now the homeless
should be queued around the block. About a half-dozen were sitting on the steps
leading up to the locked double doors that had always led to food. Others --
loners or in groups of two or three wandered past me, eyes down, as I
approached the church. I could see a sign was taped on the door, handwritten on
a sheet of copier paper. The people on the concrete steps scooted over to let
me pass, ignoring me except for one long-haired, bushy-bearded man.
“Ain’t no use friend,” he said. “No feeding today.
I stopped my climb, peering down at him. “That a fact?”
“A disappointing fact,“ he said. “You don’t look to be going hungry anyway, but some of us sorta count on gettin’ lunch here.”
“What’s the story?” I figured I could get more information from him than from the brief sentence
scribbled on the impromptu sign.
“The Methodists sold this building to another church group,” he said.
“I knew that. I’m …” I hesitated, unsure how much I should say, “... a Methodist minister. I knew they’d sold but I understood the feeding would continue. I came to help serve.”
“All I know is what the sign says,” Bushy beard explained. “Says last Friday was the final day. Damn I’m feeling hungry. They always had Salisbury steak on Monday.”
“Steak, huh!” the beard’s female friend sneered, “burgers in canned gravy is all it was.”
“Call it what you want. It tasted mighty good to me, and you won’t be actin’ so smart ’round two or three this afternoon when your stomach starts growlin’,” he said.
“Whadda you know,” she said, pulling hard and deep on her no-filter cigarette.
I glanced around at the group. Most were middle-aged; one younger, barely
twenty I guessed. Tangled hair and scruffy faces marked them as homeless more
than their clothes. People are always willing to throw their old clothes to the
homeless -- a bit of John-John wisdom I admit -- but finding a place to clean
up means going into the shelters, which most hate to do. What caught my eye is
they were all wearing long pants in the summer heat, all except for the woman.
I suddenly felt out of place in my golf shorts and polo, like I’d accidentally missed the turn to the first tee. But none of them were looking
at me anyway, mostly just staring down between their feet at the cement. I
turned to walk off. What was I going to do?
But as I reached the sidewalk I heard the beard call out, “hey preacher.” I turned back. He and his friend were coming down the stairs after me.
“Yes?”
“Did you know the old minister here at the church, you know, when it was still
Methodist?”
“I did.”
“Just wondering what happened to him. He used to come out and talk to us during
the feeding -- and pray a little too before we ate. Not real heavy with
preachin‘ and readin’ us the Bible.” He knew better than that. He was a good one. Know what became of him?”
I did, but it was a long story. “Retired,” I said, cutting to the climax. I turned again to walk off but this time it was
her who called, “Hey-hey, wait up a second.” They were hurrying now; she was wearing a tee shirt with the sleeves rolled to
the shoulders and cut off jeans so short the front pockets showed. Her boney
knees were scabbed over as if she’d fallen recently.
