And the Shofar Blew by Francine Rivers
“Yes, she’s struggling.”
“Has she talked with you about it?”
“She doesn’t have to, and will resist talking about it until it becomes too much for her. Every time she does talk, she feels guilty, as though she’s somehow being disloyal to Paul for having to confide in someone else. I was watching her after the cantata. She’ll probably come over in a day or so, and we’ll have tea again. You and Timmy can go out into your garden and feed the koi.”
“I’m not sure waiting is advisable. I’m worried about her.”
“We’re not the only ones.”
He raised his head at her dry tone and looked at her. She scowled at him as though he were as dense as a post. “I may be wearing trifocals, Samuel, but I’ve got eyes in my head. Stephen Decker has more than a normal parishioner’s interest in our pastor’s wife.”
He pursed his lips, and wondered if anyone else had noticed. He always seemed to sense things, and Abby was too perceptive for her own good. “That does not mean he’d do anything about it.”
“No, it doesn’t. Nor does it mean that if he did consider doing anything, whatever he might think up, that our Euny would fall head over heels into trouble. She’s the most godly young woman I’ve ever met, Samuel. I don’t think she has a clue that Stephen Decker is in love with her.”
“I didn’t say he was in love with her.”
“I doubt he knows it. And maybe that’s a good thing.”
“So what do we do to protect her?”
“Pray.”
He rolled his eyes in exasperation. “That’s all I do. Pray. And pray some more.”
“And after we pray, we mind our own business. You can hardly confront someone for something they haven’t done yet or might not even have in their mind to do. Worse, you might be planting an idea.”
He fought his anger. “Paul is blind as a bat.”
“On the contrary. Paul has 20/20 vision. Unfortunately, it’s not focused on his pretty little sparrow.” She leaned forward and planted her elbows on the table. Tenting her fingers, she gave him her impish smile. “Why don’t we invite Stephen Decker to our Wednesday evening Bible study?”
“Oh, I’m sure a thirty-something man will dive at the opportunity to spend the evening with eight old fogies.”
Her smile broadened to a grin. “If he resists, accuse him of age discrimination. These young businessmen break out in a cold sweat whenever that word is mentioned. It breathes lawsuit.”
“Use coercion, you mean.”
“Such a nasty word. All I’m saying is, Stephen needs strong encouragement. I’ll fill up his tummy with homemade cookies and cider, and you fill up his head and heart with sound doctrine. And who knows?” She spread her hands. “Stephen Decker might just end up an ally instead of an adversary.”
“Stephen is not an adversary.”
She gave him a level-eyed look. “Of course, you’re right.” Crossing her arms, she tilted her head. “If you want my opinion, he’s more like a carnivore who’s been living on milk and has his eye on a tasty spring lamb.”
“Abigail.”
“Don’t Abigail me. You’re the one who woke me up at three o’clock in the morning because you couldn’t sleep for worrying.”
“I’m not worrying.”
“Excuse me. I should’ve said you can’t sleep for being concerned.”
“Have I ever told you that you’re downright crabby at times?”
“And you’re Mr. Peace and Light?” She put her hands on the table and pushed herself up. She put her mug in the sink and ran water into it. She patted him on the back and planted a kiss on his bald spot. “I love you despite your disposition.”
He harrumphed a soft laugh and swatted her backside as she passed. “I love you, too, old woman.”
Her backless slippers flip-flopped to the doorway. She yawned. “Well, you hash everything out with the Lord and let me know in the morning what He decides.”
“Assuming He’ll tell me.”
She paused in the doorway, that sassy smile back on her face. “Oh, I imagine He’ll tell you the same thing I did. Pray. Mind your own business, and trust Him to handle things.”
“You can’t resist having the last word.”
She put her fingertips to her lips and blew him a kiss.
Returning from a two-day business trip, Stephen punched the button of his answering machine and shrugged off his jacket. The first three messages were offers of work. He jotted down names and numbers. The fourth message was from Kathryn asking for more money. She wanted Brittany to have piano lessons, which meant she needed a piano, a good one. She’d checked prices and they ranged from three thousand to ten thousand dollars, but he could afford it. And it would be good for their daughter. She always said “our daughter” when she wanted something.
Clenching his teeth, Stephen jotted down a note to talk to Brittany about piano lessons and see if this was her idea or Kathryn’s. If his daughter wanted music lessons, he’d pay for them, directly to her instructor. And he’d order and pay for the piano as well rather than trust Kathryn with the money. Messages five, six, and seven were salesmen. Eight was Kathryn again, pushing. He deleted it before she was finished haranguing.
“Stephen, this is Samuel Mason. Abby and I would like to invite you to our Wednesday evening Bible study. We have a small group of people interested in studying the Bible. You can ask any questions you want. If we don’t know the answers, we’ll look them up. We start at seven-thirty with coffee, tea, cookies, and conversation and then go into an hour of in-depth study, then end with prayer. We hope you’ll come.”
Stephen’s first impulse was to erase the message and pretend he hadn’t heard it. He wondered if he could come up with some excuse to decline the invitation. If he responded at all. An AA meeting was scheduled for Wednesday nights, but he had opted for the Friday morning meeting in Sacramento because he was usually there on business, and then spent afternoons with Brittany whenever Kathryn would allow, which wasn’t often. He didn’t know Samuel and Abby Mason very well, other than that Samuel was a thorn in Paul Hudson’s side. In fact, Stephen couldn’t remember Paul’s ever saying anything particularly nice about this elder. “I can always count on Sam Mason to vote against whatever plans I have,” Paul had said not long ago. That seemed odd considering that Eunice and Abby were friends, and Timmy hung around Samuel as though the old man were his grandfather.
Still, a Bible study with some old people wouldn’t be an exciting way to spend Wednesday evenings. He dismissed the idea and went into the kitchen to see what he could rustle up for dinner. Nothing looked particularly appetizing, but he wasn’t in the mood for Charlie’s Diner either. Sometimes Sally’s sense of humor grated his nerves. He yanked out a Swiss steak frozen dinner, punched holes in the top with his pen, and tossed it into the microwave. He unbuttoned his shirt and stripped it off on his way into the bedroom. A good hot shower would put him to rights.
He was restless, annoyed at nothing in particular. The sound of Kathryn’s voice always did that to him. Her catlike screeching always made him want to smash something. She was a thorn in his side, a charley horse, a pulsating hemorrhoid.
The urge to buy a bottle of scotch gripped him again.
He took a cold shower instead of a hot one and then dressed in worn jeans and an old Cal sweatshirt. Barefoot, he went back into the kitchen to check on his dinner. It was cooked as close to perfection as mystery meat could get. Probably stray dog from the alleys of Los Angeles. He ate it while standing at the counter and going through his mail. Junk, mostly. Grocery ads, lost women and children. He wished Kathryn would get lost. Maybe then he’d have some time with his daughter before she was eighteen and on her way to college or married and moving to another state. He opened two bills and set them aside and then opened a statement from his broker. His finances were in better shape now than they had been in ten years. Even with the monthly payments to Kathryn for Brittany, he had enough money to buy himself another house
Always buy with location in mind. Best place to invest is Vine Hill. Oh boy, he could buy the five-acre parcel next to the Athertons and have Sheila ringing his doorbell and asking for a cup of sugar. Last Sunday, she’d waltzed into church and plunked herself down next to him. “Rob’s in Orlando on business.” Her meaning was all too clear, especially when she’d put her hand on his thigh. He’d gripped her wrist and shoved her hand away from him. And she’d just smiled.
Several friends in Sacramento had asked him why he didn’t buy one of the luxurious condos he had designed near Roseville. It would certainly be closer to “the action.” Whatever kind of action he might want. Several friends were divorced and dating. Stephen hadn’t been out more than a dozen times since his divorce and only with women he met through work: three real-estate agents, one broker, a bank officer, two loan agents, and an attorney. He’d come close to sleeping with several of them, but backed off. He knew from experience that sex tended to attach a woman to a man like a barnacle to the underbelly of a ship, and he didn’t need or want that kind of complication at this time of his life.
Only one woman tempted his resolve to keep his walls up, and she was as unavailable as she was unaware. Which was just as well.
Tossing the empty TV dinner tray into the trash bag under the sink, Stephen went into the living room and turned on CNN, but he’d heard all the news on the drive north from LA. He channel-surfed until he stopped on The Rush Limbaugh Show, but quickly grew irritated by Limbaugh’s constant interruptions and combative, know-it-all attitude. He punched off the TV, tossed the remote onto the coffee table, and reached for the novel he’d bought at Costco. Ten minutes later, he tossed the book back on the coffee table in disgust. Putting that rubbish onto good paper was a waste of trees.
He wanted a drink. Badly.
Swearing under his breath, he tried to get his mind off how good a glass of fine scotch would taste right now. But the harder he tried, the more the urge persisted. His sponsor had told him to flee temptation. He needed to get out of the apartment or he’d go nuts. But where could he go? It was too dark and too cold to run. Too far from Sacramento to make it worthwhile driving up there “for some action.”
He flipped through the newspaper until he found the theater ad. Only one movie playing, and it was about a serial killer who had a taste for human livers.
His hands were shaking again. They hadn’t done that in two years. Why was tonight such a crisis?
Glancing at his watch, he saw it was only seven-ten. He never went to bed before ten-thirty. Nothing on television. Nothing worth seeing at the theater. Not interested in reading a novel. Not enough room to work out in his living room, not that that held any appeal either. Nothing in his video collection he wanted to watch. So what was he going to do to get through the evening without going out to buy a bottle of scotch and ending up back in the pit?
Help me, God. This is only Wednesday.
Wednesday.
Something clicked.
Surging to his feet, Stephen headed for his home office. Frustrated, he jabbed the button on his answering machine and listened again to the message about the Masons’ Bible study. Why not? He’d try it once. He went into his bedroom, put on socks and sneakers, yanked off his sweatshirt, and pulled on a T-shirt and sweater. He grabbed his black leather jacket on the way out the door. Swearing under his breath, he unlocked the door again and went back in to look up the Masons’ address.
When he pulled up in front of their house, he saw three other cars—one a Buick with a wheelchair mount on the back. What was he doing here? This was crazy. What did he have in common with a houseful of old people? The dash clock said 7:28. In three more minutes, he would be late and could drive away with a clear conscience.
And go where?
He shifted into park and jammed on the parking brake. Climbing out, he locked his truck, pulled up his leather collar, and headed for the gate of the Masons’ white picket fence. The porch light was on, casting a warm glow over the attractive lawn and neatly pruned rosebushes lining the cobblestone walkway to the front steps. He heard the sound of voices and pressed the doorbell.
He saw the gathering just inside the screen door. No one under seventy. Abigail Mason saw him. “Stephen!”
“Maybe I should have called first.” He took a step back.
“Nonsense!” She pushed the screen door open. “I’m so glad you’re here!” Looping her arm through his, she drew him in, closing the door firmly behind him. He couldn’t escape without being rude.
The diminutive, white-haired old lady ushered him through the tiny entry alcove into the living room, where eight others were gathered, one in a wheelchair near the refreshment trolley. Otis Harrison’s wife. Everyone in the room was more than twice Stephen’s age, except for the little boy perched next to Samuel Mason.
Apparently Abigail Mason noticed he noticed. “We’re baby-sitting. Eunice had some last-minute shopping to do before her inlaws arrive in town. She’ll pop by later.”
His heart gave a little lurch. “Does she attend the Bible study?”
“No.” She gave him a sidelong look he couldn’t decipher. “Not usually.”
Meaning Eunice might attend on occasion? He shrugged out of his leather jacket and entered the living room. Conversation ceased.
“Friends, we have a newcomer,” Abigail said brightly. “Let’s make Stephen Decker welcome, shall we?” Several greeted him warmly, including Samuel and Timmy. Abigail released his arm and looked up at him. “Now, what can I serve you, Stephen? We have macaroons this evening. How about some coffee? Or would you prefer a nice hot cup of tea?”
Tea! Stephen laughed. “Coffee, please, Abby.”
“Regular or unleaded? Sugar or cream?”
“Regular and black, ma’am. And thank you.”
“Coffee it is.” She gave him a cheeky grin. “We’re glad you’re here. We’ve been praying you’d come.”
Thus began an evening full of surprises, not the least of which was how fast time passed, or that he didn’t even notice when Eunice Hudson took Timmy from the gathering. Samuel Mason held his attention. The old man had pulled them all into the Bible, outlining historical aspects, culture, and meaning along with current applications. And he’d posed questions that made Stephen think. Mason had covered only four short verses, but Stephen knew he’d be thinking about those verses for the rest of the night and probably for the next few days as well. He’d never thought the Minor Prophets had anything vital to say about today, so he had skimmed them at best, or skipped them entirely on occasion. He couldn’t have been more wrong, or more delighted in the discovery.
“So how did the meat taste, Stephen?” Abby handed him his jacket.
“Meat?” Maybe she had a touch of Alzheimer’s.
She chuckled and patted his arm. “That’s all right.”
The others filed out ahead of him, Otis pushing his wife’s wheelchair out first as Samuel said good night at the door. When it came Stephen’s turn to depart, Samuel extended his hand. “Good to have you join us.” The old man had a strong handshake. Stephen liked that.
He stepped out onto their front porch and looked around. Tipping up the collar of his leather jacket, he looked back. “See you next week.” He went down the steps feeling better than he had in weeks.
CHAPTER 7
PAUL STOOD at the front door of the church, shaking hands with people as they filed out of the sanctuary. Several said his message was anointed. Most said they enjoyed the service immensely. Yet his despair deepened. It didn’t matter how many complimented him, his father’s opinion was what mattered most, and all David Hudson had said was, “Not bad. I’ll give you a few pointers later.”
His father could still reduce him to nothing with just a few words.
From the night Eunice had told him his parents were coming, he had worked constantly. Now, his parents were in the fellowship hall, his father undoubtedly surrounded by adm
What was so wrong with the sermon he had given? Flawless alliteration, poignant illustrations, light touches. The congregation had laughed when he’d wanted them to laugh, become silent and thoughtful when he’d wanted them to be silent and thoughtful. He’d even roused their tears.
“Not bad.”
The curse of faint praise.
Days of hard work, and still he didn’t measure up to his father’s expectations. He never had, and probably never would. Several new people came around the corner, talking together. Paul kept the smile tacked to his face. He needed to be upbeat or they might walk out the door and never come back. And he would’ve failed again.
“Great sermon, Pastor.”
“I’m glad you joined us this morning. I hope you’ll come back.”
“We wouldn’t have missed it. Is David Hudson really your father?”
What was that supposed to mean? That his sermon was a shadow to his father’s oratory talents? “Yes, he is.”
“Will he be speaking at the evening service?”
“No.”
“What a pity. We were hoping to hear him in person.”
Paul’s stomach tightened. “My father is here on vacation, but you have an opportunity to meet him in the fellowship hall. We’re having a potluck lunch to honor him.”
The husband and wife looked at one another in dismay. “We didn’t bring anything.”
“We planned for visitors. We have plenty. The fellowship hall is right around the corner. You’re more than welcome to stay and meet my parents as well as members of our congregation. Everyone will make you welcome.” He watched them go down the steps toward the gathering, and then he turned to meet several others filing out of the church.
Maybe he’d disappointed his mother as well. She’d smiled at him, but said nothing before going down the steps with his father. In fact, she had barely looked at him. He wished he could go into his office, close the door, and have a few minutes to get his emotions under control before he joined everyone in the fellowship hall. He felt like smashing something.