Nothing Sacred

Still he sat there. She wasn’t usually so insensitive. His life was unraveling. A walk outside wasn’t on the top of his list. To look at what? He couldn’t even imagine.

“Come on, Marks.” Her voice took on a cajoling note he didn’t appreciate. “The truth has waited twenty-three years. I don’t think it’s going anywhere.”

She was right, of course. He probably did need to distance himself from his own circumstances. It was what he’d taught her and Ellen when life had seemed overwhelming to them.

We teach what we most need to know.

Hands in his pockets, David followed Martha to the sliding glass door off his kitchen. Doors that led to the large yard between the church and his home.

As soon as she opened the doors, his heart started to pound. There were hundreds of people out in the yard. He saw them, heard them.

“With Ellen’s permission, I had a little talk with everyone after church.” Although they were still in the house, Martha had had to raise her voice so he could hear her. “I’m sorry if you’re angry that I didn’t also get your permission, but Ellen and I made an executive decision. You didn’t need to live through the story another time. We told it for you.”

He had no idea what she was talking about.

Stepping outside, David wasn’t sure what to expect. Did the whole town want to be involved in firing him?

The applause that thundered as he approached was nothing to the blinding smiles that greeted him. One by one, town members he’d helped, people he’d visited, even people who hadn’t had time for his visits, all came forward to shake his hand, some to hug him, all of them to tell him he was welcome in their town. They’d never had a preacher like him, he heard over and over again. They’d never had a preacher whose spirit walked with him everywhere he went, whose lessons were more by example than anything else.

“Your sermon on forgiveness this morning…” Becca Parsons said as she approached him with little Bethany hanging on to her skirt, ten-month old Kaelin in her arms, and husband, Will, standing right behind her.

“Yes?” He waited.

“We all need you to take it to heart and forgive us for waiting so long to throw you your welcome party.” She reached up to run her free hand down his cheek. “Welcome home, Pastor.”

“Welcome home,” Will reiterated, giving David’s hand a vigorous shake.

Shelley Moore stepped up, head raised as she met his eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“It’s okay.” He understood why she’d ratted on him. He’d backed her into a corner.

“No, it’s not.” This was a different young woman he was speaking to. “I was blaming everyone, you mostly, for the fact that my father didn’t love me anymore,” she said. “I’ve screwed up, Pastor.” She looked over her shoulder at the people behind her, her eyes revealing a desperation that pulled at him.

“We’ll talk later,” he told her. “As soon as possible.”

She nodded, soberly. “I told Drake I couldn’t see him anymore; and I apologized to Monica.” She swallowed. “I’m going to need some help.”

“And I’m going to help you.”

His reward was a beautiful though tentative smile that David would cherish forever.

An hour later, still visiting with people, eating from a paper plate filled with food that had suddenly appeared, David glanced up to find Martha standing in front of him.

“We need to talk, Pastor,” she said, her face expressionless.

“Of course.” He dropped his plate in a nearby trash bag. “Now?”

“Yes, please.”

“What’s on your mind?” They were walking away from the crowd, but still within sight of those milling around, enjoying the impromptu party. The happy screams of children chasing each other could be heard in the distance.

“Just that we feel, those of us who’ve been in Shelter Valley all our lives, that our preacher really shouldn’t live alone.”

“Oh?” They wanted him to share his house? He’d love to. Anything to fill the emptiness in that huge place.

“Yes, we think—considering that we need food provided on many unplanned occasions and a shoulder to cry on now and then—that there should be a woman in his life.”

“Oh?” She’d slid her hand in his. The last time David remembered sweating like this, he’d been fifteen years old.