And the Shofar Blew by Francine Rivers
Others shared humorous stories about her outspoken manner. “I was whining about my parents once, and she told me I was a self-centered little pip-squeak,” one young man said. Everyone laughed. “She said some other things, too, but I don’t think I want to go into how big a jerk I was at the time. Anyway . . . what I really wanted to say is, if it’d been anyone else but Mrs. Mason, I wouldn’t’ve listened. I knew she loved me.”
Hank Porter’s wife stood, wearing a rather garish outfit that made people twitter. “Some of you are probably wondering how a pastor’s wife could dare wear a getup like this, but I did it to honor Abby. She gave me this red hat and this purple blouse on my sixty-fifth birthday.” Everyone laughed, including Susanna Porter herself, who dabbed tears from her eyes.
Tim stood, tried to speak, and sat again. Samuel put his arm around him, and they leaned their heads together. Eunice stood, took the mike offered, and told everyone about Abby’s untiring service to the church, her compassion for others, especially a shy, young pastor’s wife. She looked at Samuel through her tears. “She was like a mother to me, and my dearest friend. Whenever I have been with Abby or Samuel, I have felt the presence of God.” Unable to say more, she sat on the piano bench again.
When all were silent, Hank Porter brought the service to an end. “The last thing we can do for Christ in this world is to die well. Abby’s last words to her husband, Samuel, were not about herself, but of her concern for another. I have no doubt when our Abby opened her eyes again, she was looking straight into Jesus’ face and He was smiling and saying the words we all long to hear . . . ”
There was a soft rumble of voices as the older members of the congregation spoke in unison with him, “Well done, good and faithful servant.”
Hank Porter bowed his head and prayed simply, “Lord, receive our beloved sister, Abigail Mason. She has been an example of Your love to every-one who knew her. Help us to honor her by living our lives as she did, our eyes fixed upon Your precious Son, Jesus, in whose name we pray.”
Again the soft rumble of voices as they said, “Amen.”
Eunice was thankful she knew all of Abby’s favorite hymns by heart. She could not have seen the music through her tears. She played one after another until the sanctuary was almost empty and everyone was on their way to the fellowship hall, where the deaconesses had prepared a luncheon buffet.
“Why didn’t Dad stay?” Tim asked on the way home.
“Hank Porter was Samuel and Abby’s pastor for forty years.”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
“He had an important meeting.”
“Sure. And I have a bridge I can sell you, Mom.” He glared straight ahead. “The Masons are the best friends we’ve ever had, and Dad’s too stupid to know it.”
“Don’t talk that way about your father.”
“Why not? It’s true.”
She pulled into the driveway and pressed the garage-door opener. Paul’s new Buick was parked inside. She pulled in next to it. Tim was still a boy, but his face had a hardness that hurt Eunice. “Your father doesn’t need your condemnation, Tim. He needs your prayers.”
“Why should he need my prayers? He’s got God’s ear. Just ask him.” He got out of the car and slammed the door.
“Tim!” She got out of the car as quickly as she could, but he was already on his bike. “Where are you going?”
“Anywhere but here!”
Paul was full of good news. The luncheon meeting with MacNamara had gone better than he hoped. “We hit it off. He as much as said he’d grease the wheels and make sure everything goes ahead on schedule.”
“Aren’t you going to ask how Abby’s memorial service went?”
“I’m sure it went well. You know, I used to get so sick of hearing Henry Porter’s name all the time, and last night I couldn’t have been happier to meet him. God works in mysterious ways.”
“Don’t you mean convenient?”
He ignored her comment and launched into more details about his meeting with the planning commission and how everything was coming together the way he had been praying.
Not once did he ask about Tim, who was taking Abby Mason’s death even harder than she was.
CHAPTER 11
1999
PAUL FLIPPED through the pages of Christian Worldview magazine, scanning articles with progressive ideas. In the middle was the best-seller list with his father’s book, Building a Church for the Twenty-First Century, at the top. Dropping the magazine on the desk, Paul leaned back, depressed. Turning his swivel chair, he looked out the window of his new office and watched a crew working on the skeleton of the third wing of Valley New Life Center. He had come a long way in twelve years, but not far enough. The sick feeling in the pit of his stomach was all too familiar. Would he always live in the shadow of his father? He should be rejoicing for him, not feeling this plague of envy.
Resolved, he picked up the telephone and pressed a speed-dial button. Looking out over VNLC, he tried to bolster himself. He was winning souls, too, wasn’t he? “Hey, Mom, how are you doing?”
“Fine. How are you? It’s been a while since you called.”
“Well, you know how things are. Never enough hours in the day. The building project is ahead of schedule.”
“How nice for you.”
“I just saw Dad’s book on the best-seller list. Not that I’m surprised.”
“Not that you should be.”
Sometimes he wondered at his mother’s tone. “I’m calling to congratulate him. Is he around or off playing golf with some big muckety-muck?”
“Oh, he’s here, working and scheming as always. Hang on, Paul. We have a new phone system. If I push a wrong button and cut you off, I’ll call you right back.”
His parents had moved into a new house in North Hollywood soon after his father retired. It was in the hills overlooking San Fernando Valley. The last time he and Eunice had gone down for a visit, his father had shown him the new office they’d added over the two-car garage. It was every bit as grand as the one he had vacated at the church he’d built.
Paul drummed his fingers. Two minutes passed before his mother came back on the line. “Your father will be with you shortly, Paul. He’s on another call.”
He was probably talking to the publisher about a sequel.
“So, how’s Eunice? How’s Tim?”
Delaying tactics? “Euny is still playing piano and singing, though not as much now that we have a full-time music minister. And Tim is doing his thing.” He glanced at his watch again. “Look, I can call back later.”
“You can’t talk to your mother for five minutes?”
“Sure. I didn’t mean—”
“What ‘thing’ is Tim up to these days?”
“What most teenagers do. Hang out with friends. He comes to church every Sunday.”
“I’m certain of that.”
Again, that tone.
The phone clicked. “Hey, Paul. How’re things in your little neck of the woods?”
His father never missed a chance to get in a dig.
“I’ll leave you two to talk.” His mother hung up abruptly.
“Did you call for advice again? You know, one of these days I’m going to be singing with the angels and you’ll have to figure things out for yourself.”
Paul bristled, but managed a laugh. “I didn’t call for advice. None needed. I just called to say congratulations on making the best-seller list. When do I get a copy?”
“As soon as you order one.” His father laughed. “Just kidding, kid. I already put you on my influencers list. You should be getting a copy from the publisher any day. In fact, I’m surprised you haven’t received it already.”
Nice personal touch. “No autograph?”
“You sound a little jaundiced.”
Paul was careful to lighten his tone. “Far from it. I’m proud of you, Dad. I should get you up here to speak. You’d draw people from Sacramento. We could make a day of it.”
“What are you charging these days? We have two thousand members now, Dad. We can afford the best.”
“Well, good for you. What’s it taken you to get that church on its feet? Fifteen years?”
“Twelve.” Paul curbed his irritation. “I started with thirty-eight members.”
“I had fewer than that when I started. How’s the building project going, by the way?”
Paul was glad his father brought up the subject. “Ahead of schedule.” It was his turn to boast. “The third wing is going up. I got a call yesterday that Architectural Digest is going to do an article on our designer, Stephen Decker.”
“I’ve never heard of the magazine.”
“Because it’s not Christian, Dad. It’s what the Atlantic Monthly is to literature, only in the world of architecture. You can’t even get a Christian magazine in the racks these days. The Digest is in every supermarket across the country. And our sanctuary is going to be on the cover in August.” Paul tossed Christian Worldview into the wastebasket and tipped his chair back. “I’ll send you a copy when it comes out.”
“I’ve got a few other irons in the fire.”
Paul relished his father’s jaundiced tone. “Good for you, Dad.” He tipped his chair forward. “Look, I’d like to talk longer, but I’ve got to run.
Give Mom a hug.” He hung up before his father could say more.
He’d won this time, and wondered why he felt curiously empty despite his victory.
There were days Stephen wished he’d never submitted the proposal to build the Valley New Life Center. He knew the minute Paul came through the door of Charlie’s Diner, briefcase in hand, that this was going to be anything but lunch with a friend.
Dealing with a demanding executive intent on building his dream house or a landowner designing a business park was a cakewalk compared to building a church. Paul—and the rest of the building committee—seemed to have forgotten that the usual fee for a contractor was 10 percent of the construction cost. Stephen had written up the contract for 5 percent, considering the difference to be his gift to God. And still some were convinced he was lining his pockets with gold.
“How soon before this phase is done?” was becoming an irritating litany, along with “You need to cut costs.”
Stephen had explained the critical-path concept a dozen times. The schedule had been set up to make the best use of time in coordinating sub-contractors, materials, and order schedules. He’d built in float time so that the project would be cost-effective, even in the event of delays. Still Paul pushed, harder and harder.
“You told me last week the next shipment of lumber was arriving on Monday.”
“Coast Lumber’s semi broke down on I-5, so there’s a two-day delay. It’s no big deal.”
“No big deal?” Paul raised his brows. “Time is money.”
“I warned you there are always delays, Paul. I’m not God. We’re all working hard. The dozers are preparing the back parking lot, and the tractors are getting the ground ready to plant the olive grove.”
“Yeah, but . . . ”
Stephen hated yeah, buts. They drove him nuts. He didn’t like being taken for granted, either. Nor did he like the members of Paul’s building committee coming at him from all directions with ideas, thinking a change here or there didn’t mean much. How many times over the past three years had he reminded them why he had written up a twenty-year plan?
“You’re moving too fast, Paul. You’re going to drive our church so deep into debt, we’ll never dig our way out.”
“The money’s coming in.”
“Not fast enough. Not for the work you want done.”
“You’ve got to have more faith, Stephen.” Sometimes Paul had the eyes of a bulldog with his teeth in the leg of a mailman.
“I’ve got faith. I also have experience. Businesses that try to grow too fast go under.”
“We’re not a business. God will provide.”
Yeah, but . . .
Gerald Boham would probably come up with another one of his hare-brained fund-raising schemes. And Marvin Lockford didn’t mind holding bills for sixty days or longer.
The church wasn’t the only one going into debt. It had always been a matter of honor to Stephen to make sure his subcontractors and workers were paid on time. But he only had so much in the way of resources. And he was tired of waiting for reimbursement.
“Documentation,” Lockford always said. “We need more documentation.” What was the Bible verse about returning a man’s cloak to him before nightfall so he had something to sleep in?
Stephen didn’t hire strangers. He hired men with whom he had built relationships. He was on a first-name basis with the structural engineer, framing contractor, civil engineer, and landscape architect. Stephen kept a close eye on things because he didn’t trust Marvin Lockford to keep the accounts straight. He didn’t like feeling as though he had to use a crowbar to get money owed out of Lockford’s clenched fist.
Stephen doubted Paul ever had to wait for his paycheck.
Bills were always coming due. Acoustical engineers putting in the sound systems; the mechanical engineer in charge of the heating, ventilation, and air-conditioning systems; the electrical engineer, the plumbing engineer, and the fire-suppression engineer. Woven into all their work were the constant stress and flow of inspectors who could bring a project to a grinding halt if everything wasn’t done right.
Some days Stephen felt like a traffic cop at a Manhattan intersection. It would be easier if he lay down in the middle of the street and let them all run over him. Unfortunately, it wasn’t in his nature.
Lord, who’s in charge of this project? You or Paul Hudson? I want to do Your will, Jesus. I’m trying to get it right.
Stephen wanted this church to stand long after he and Paul Hudson were dead and gone. He wanted people to see Christ in each board and brick of it. But every time he glimpsed one of the building committee guys walking around the site, or heard about another one of Gerald Boham’s “events,” or saw Paul walk into Charlie’s with his leather briefcase in his hand, his blood pressure shot up.
Sally Wentworth poured coffee. Paul smiled and chatted briefly with her, then got straight back to business. “I don’t see why we can’t cut some costs here and there.”
How many times did they have to have this conversation? Stephen strove for patience. “Cut costs and the quality goes down. You get what you pay for, Paul. This church is being built to honor God, and it’s going to be built with the best materials available.” As long as he had any say about it.
Paul flushed. “Did I say to build it with cheap materials?” As he talked about the pressure he was under from his building committee, Stephen almost sneered. Paul had handpicked those men; they rubber-stamped every-thing Paul wanted.
What’s going on here, Lord?
Stephen knew something was wrong, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Things were changing—Pastor Paul, most of all. Stephen used to respect Paul’s charisma in the pulpit, his ability to organize programs and pick staff that worked with him as a unit. But over the past few years, he had seen some of those same people goose-step over anyone who disagreed with “the vision.” Paul Hudson could still motivate people and tap talent and resources, but Stephen was feeling more and more uneasy about him.
Maybe it’s because I feel tapped to the limit, Lord. Is it just about money, or is there something else going on here?
He wondered if anyone else had misgivings. He was seeing a hard edge to Paul’s fierce determination to build VNLC ahead of the proposed twenty-year schedule. What had happened to the easygoing friend who used to slide onto a stool at the counter of Charlie’s Diner after a four-mile run?
Stephen shoved his half-eaten lunch aside and clasped his hands on the table. “Let’s back up, Paul. Let’s slow it down. There’s a reason I wrote it up as a twenty-year project. The best materials cost more, but they last longer. We
“I know, Stephen, but at the rate we’re going, we’ll be lucky to live long enough to see the complex finished.”
“Does it matter if we live to see it? We wanted it done right. It used to take hundreds of years to build a cathedral.” Stephen was perplexed by Paul’s frustration and impatience.
Paul laughed without humor. “I wish it were a cathedral.”
“We’re ahead of schedule, Paul. Ease up. Give the congregation a breather from fund-raising programs. Let them settle in.”
Paul nodded. “Okay. Let’s put off the gymnasium. But we’d like to have the fountain up and running by the end of the year.”
Stephen breathed out slowly. Is he listening, Lord? “The fountain is in the last-phase plans. One of those options to consider down the road, after the twenty-year plan is completed.”
“It looks spectacular on paper, Stephen. The living water gushing up from the earth and flowing over those statues like a cleansing stream. It would be awe inspiring. It would draw people.”
“It was a conceptual drawing.”
“So you don’t know how much it would cost.”
“Somewhere in the neighborhood of three hundred thousand dollars. Probably more by the time we get around to putting it in. If we do.”
“I suppose you could design something simpler, but incorporating the same ideas. You’ve always had great design concepts, Stephen.”
He saw where Paul was going. He wanted another set of blueprints for a nominal fee—or no fee at all. It was time to call a halt. He couldn’t keep giving away his time and savings. He had to make house payments and buy groceries. “I haven’t got the time. I’ve got three other jobs lined up.”
“That might be one of your problems right there, Stephen.”
Stephen stared at him, pulse rocketing. “What are you saying?”
“The committee thinks you’re stretched too thin.”