“I was too born in the church. In the church office in fact!”
The girls looked at him in amazement, which was exactly the look he wanted to see. He waited until at least one of them pleaded with him to tell them more. He loved that.
“Okay, Okay. My dad had just started working here. It was his dream job ever since he left seminary. He was so excited. He was here every day of the week. It got to the point where my mom had to drive to the church building just to see him. She used to joke with the church ladies that she had to come to church on Sunday just to remember what my dad looked like.”
“Anyway, somehow they still managed to get pregnant. I don’t know how.” The girls giggled at his naughty way of talking. One of them said minister’s sons were not supposed to talk that way. But the looks on their faces begged for more.
“It was just before the busy Christmas season and my dad was here late practicing a sermon or arranging music for a special service or something. Anyway, my mom was super fat by then, and she had actually driven herself to the church to see him. I think she needed to ask him what he wanted for Christmas or something.
“Anyway, he was so involved in his work in the office, he practically forgot she was still there. It was not until she cried out all of a sudden. Apparently her water burst or broke or whatever they call it. Anyway, it was like she wet herself all over the carpet or something.”
The girls scrunched their faces in disgust, but he continued, knowing he had them spell-bound by now.
“Another thing neither of them had noticed was that, while he was scribbling away on his sermon, the snow — which was only a flurry when she had parked outside — had by then turned into a blizzard. I don’t know how they hadn’t noticed it, but they were young and in love … with each other and ‘with the Lord’.”
The girls’ eyes rolled. Some in dreamy admiration, the others in the typical disdain of youth.
***
As the young pastor looked up from his books and into the startled and worried face of his wife, he suddenly realized that his sermon prep would have to be cut short. He pushed aside his commentaries and his notes and rushed over to where she sat, noticing the puddle forming on the front edge of the seat and the floor in front of her.
“We have to get you to the hospital!” he said in naive, first-time-father excitement, jumping up and actually spinning in a full circle, trying to remember where he put his coat and, at the same time, noticing the wind-blown snow had obscured nearly half of each of the now-darkened window panes of his study.
“Oh, no,” he said. “That’s going to make it difficult,” he said stupidly. Stepping out of his study, he ran down the hall to the outside door. He pushed the crash bar but bruised his upper arm and shoulder as the deepening snow fought his attempts to open it. When he did finally heave the door open, plowing a semicircular swath through the snow on the step, he saw that it had drifted over the entire small parking lot and had half buried both their cars.
It was then he realized that his first baby was going to be born in the church. How appropriate, he thought!
^^^
“And that’s how I was born in the church office!” he said with calculating pride. As he scanned his young audience’s attractive eyes, he knew he had at least one of them hooked, and now he had only to reel them in.
“Okay, girls, your folks are here to pick you up!” The youth leader called from the other room, breaking the spell. “Come on, Charles, stop entertaining the ladies and help me pick up the study guides.”
What a jerk, Chuck thought. He was especially ticked off that Mr. Jellen kept calling him ‘Charles’ in front of his feminine admirers, especially Stacy, the hottest of all of them. But, he saw the look in her eyes as she brushed past him, a little closer than a ‘good girl’ should, and knew that his plan was working.
***
The next week was the special community offering to buy turkeys and stuff for the local homeless shelter and Charles and his younger brother Mark were busy plotting. They knew the annual offering usually raked in thousands because people from the whole town were invited to the service. They also knew that, contrary to their usual practice where the deacons quickly take the offering to the church office and lock it in the secretary’s closet for later counting, this week the baskets were brought to the front, prayed over by their dad, then taken off to the side sacristy, where they were left — unguarded — during the extended praise-song singing following the offering. How he and his brother Mark hated those songs, with their inane, repetitive lyrics and falsely ‘cool’ guitar licks. But this year, they didn’t care how long or how many songs they sang. Chuck and Mark were going to strike it big.
As they had planned, Chuck came to church early, ostensibly to help the custodian set up tables for the after-service refreshments. Instead, however, he sneaked into the sanctuary before the lights were turned on, using the key his dad had lent him years ago. He strolled up the side aisle and, slipping through the sacristy door, snuggled down behind some choir robes hanging on a long rack in the corner, and waited.
He had even brought a bottle of water and some of his favorite power bars — the expensive ones he bought online with his dad’s credit card — to keep from being hungry or bored during the long wait. The rest of the plan was in Mark’s hands.
The service went as usual, with the typical sermon about having a heart of generosity for the less fortunate and blah blah blah. Chuck could hear the muffled tones of his father’s homily through the wall. He could swear it was the same sermon he had heard last year. Then, shortly after, the door swung open and the light was flipped on, startling him for a moment. He glanced down at his sneakers to make sure they weren’t sticking out from under the bottom of the robe rack.
“Okay, right here on this counter should be good. There. My! My! What a great offering this year. This congregation is always such a giving group.” Chuck heard a middle-aged female voice.
“The economy must be picking up after all,” a hoarse, older male voice responded. He knew it was Mr. Adkins. He always was a cynical old creep.
Then the light snapped off and the door clicked shut. Chuck sat hunkered down for a few more moments, trying to control his breathing. Then he slid himself out, feet-first, from under the robes. He stood, dusted off his butt, and tip-toed over to the money baskets. From his cargo-pants pocket he pulled out a skinny LED flashlight he had earned in Boy Scouts two years earlier. He held it between his teeth and started scanning the money piles. It was like checking out the all-you-can-eat buffet next to the mall. There were seven of them! And a couple were actually overflowing with cash. Cold, hard, easy cash. A sly smile spread across his face and he pumped his fist in the air. Then he composed himself and remembered the plan. Mark and he had figured it out. To avoid looking like they were carrying big wads of cash, they would only take the biggest bills they could find. Chuck nearly drooled on the flashlight; right on top he saw some fifties, a twenty and … whoa, there were three hundred-dollar bills in the first three baskets! His heart beat faster, and he almost dropped the light. He started pulling the bills out and flattening them together on the counter with the heel of his hand. Then he slid them in small batches into the two blue vinyl, zippered pencil bags — Christmas presents from a great aunt the year they entered junior high. Thanks, Aunt Lucy! Bet you didn’t dream you were aiding and abetting budding criminals, did you?
***
Outside, in the sanctuary, the songs were nearing the end. His brother Mark had chosen a seat up front in the third row, along the right-side aisle, and was eyeing the shadowy front corner of the auditorium, where the sacristy door was. He was also wearing his deepest-pocket cargo pants. His palms had begun to sweat.
The last song was an especially emotional one — at least for the sincere in the congregation — and most hands and eyes were raised high in praise. The pastor took advantage of the already closed eyes to begin his final prayer. The boys also took advantage of the moment. With swift stealth, Mark slid to the sacristy door, inching it open, nearly bumping into Chuck who was waiting just inside. The packets were equally divided, slid into waiting pockets, and the boys were back in their seats before the final, eye-opening amen.
The bowing and scraping in the back lobby after the service always drove Chuck and Mark crazy. All the fakey-fakey nicey-nicey made them want to throw up. ‘What a wonderful sermon, Pastor Josephson!’ ‘Oh, why thank you, Mrs. Bridges, and how is that ankle of yours feeling this week?’
Being the pastor’s sons, however, they were more or less obliged to hang around until the lights were turned off. They were especially nervous tonight, with their pockets still bulging with these people’s hard-earned cash. They hoped their hands were not too sweaty, as they were expected to shake hands politely with a certain minimum number of the faithful flock. The fact that they weren’t making much eye contact tonight was not unusual. They were teenagers after all.
Finally, the night was over and they were in the back of the family SUV heading home.
***
“Well, boys, I hope you’re richer for having attended tonight’s service.” Chuck choked on his gum and coughed out loud. “Oh, dear! Are you alright, Mark?”
“It’s Chuck … and I’m fine.”
“Yes, dad, it was really inspiring to see how generous God’s people can be,” Mark took over the falsely spiritual interchange, glad that his father couldn’t see the smirk on his face in the darkened back seat of the car. His brother was poking him in the ribs unmercifully trying to get him to laugh out loud. He held his breath. All dad could sense from the driver’s seat was two squirmy bodies. Boys will be boys, he thought to himself.
The next day at their schools, both boys strutted like young kings around the halls. Fortunately, Chuck was in high school and Mark was in junior high, because there definitely would not have been room for both of their egos in the same building. They both ditched the home-made lunches their father had gotten out of bed early early to make. All day it was candy bars and sports drinks from the vending machines. At lunch in the cafeteria it was the best — relatively speaking — hot lunch they could buy. And at the end of the day, Chuck was the supplier of choice for cigarettes back behind the dumpsters. His following was definitely growing. Guys were a necessary part of the entourage, but it was obviously the girls in the herd that he was trying to impress. He wished that Stacy from church also went to his school but, instead, here he had his sights on Julie — purple hair, tramp stamp tattoo, short skirts and all. Not a bad target.
“Hey, Chuck, where’d you get the cash?” she said with honey in her voice. She had noticed him flashing the wad in the hallway by the vending machine bay.
“That’s for me to know and you …”
“… to find out? Maybe you don’t want me to find out.” She said suspiciously. “Maybe you stole it and I could get you in trouble with your holy father.”
He didn’t know how to respond. Was she taunting him, or just flirting? He was too inexperienced to know the difference, though his gut told him she was taunting him.
“Like I care what my dad thinks. He doesn’t even know where I am most of the time!”
“Then maybe you can ‘get lost’ at my house this weekend. My parents are out of town.”
***
“Dang it! Julie invited you to her place this weekend!? You got protection?” Mark teased. “Woo Hoo! Does she have a sister?” He was glad his father wasn’t home; they could revel in lustful teenage fantasies as loud as they wanted.
“Shut up, Mark!”
“Waddya mean, shut up? Is she some kind of nun or something?”
“Ha! Hardly!” Chuck admitted, though somewhat shyly. It wasn’t like money was going to instantly show him how to handle the situation. He was excited and scared to death at the same time.
***
Mark walked the halls of his school with new confidence until his last hour class, which he always hated because it was held in the farthest hallway in the building in the old wing. He was just leaving class, checking his phone for any texts that had come in during class. His dinosaur of a teacher insisted they drop their phones in a basket by the door during class. What a dork!
Wham! Umph! He was broadsided by three guys and shoved into an old janitor’s closet and the door slammed behind him and them. It took him a few moments to catch his breath, which wasn’t easy as he felt like he was getting leaned on from all sides. Then one of his assailants pulled the string on a porcelain socket and the dim light revealed a paint-stained white porcelain utility sink, pukey-green walls, and cracked linoleum floor. Before he could notice anything else, an acne-scarred brute was in his face.
“Where’d ya get the money, Josephson?” Bologna breath filled the small space.
“What are ya talk…”
A fist prodded his ribs. “Where’d you get all that money?” Another one repeated.
“We saw you flashing it in the cafeteria, so don’t try to lie to us!”
“Okay, okay, chill already …” Mark squeaked, trying to stall for time. He had no idea what these guys were willing to do. At least two of them were on the football team, and he could remember several very rough tackles that were followed by the ambulance sirens.
“Whyyy … do you want to know.’ He couldn’t keep the tremble out of his voice.
“Hey, we don’t really need to know where he got it, just if there’s more and what he intends to do with it,” another said.
“Alright,” the presumptive leader of the threesome piped up. “We got a deal for you. A deal you can’t refuse, like that guy in that old movie says.”
Mark knew he was in it now. In it up to his eyeballs. But as his pimply-faced friend said, he couldn’t refuse.
The next day the threesome from the janitor’s closet picked up Mark at the prearranged spot, about a block from his house, in an old pickup truck. They flung him in the back bed on top of some old canvas tarps, knocking several beer cans out of the way. The driver slammed the truck into gear and they took off, tumbling him into the tailgate, bloodying the side of his head.
About twenty minutes later, after he had finally given up trying to keep his balance and had laid back on the bed liner, his view overhead was obscured on both sides by sooty brick buildings and fire escapes. The truck rolled to a stop.
“Is this the guy? The kid with the cash?” a voice from the alley next to the truck asked. They pulled him up to a sitting position, still in the back of the truck. Over the side he faced a dark, hooded man who reeked of tobacco, among other fascinating aromas.
“Yeah, he’s suddenly mister rich kid. We thought maybe you could make use of him.”
“Hmmm, skinny little runt. Well, if he’s got dough —and can get more?…” He glared questioning at the others, who quickly nodded their heads obediently. “… Then maybe he’ll be useful in growing our business.”
What did he mean by business, Mark wondered. This group hardly looked like the Shark-Tank types.
Before he knew it, the three of them had hoisted him out of the truck and dragged him, with his legs flailing behind him, through a grey-painted door nearby, identified only by some faded stick-on numbers. He was directed bodily to a nearby folding table and a chair was kicked underneath him. By this time, he was glad he had used the bathroom before his last class.
“Since you’re the goody-two-shoes minister’s kid, you’re going to make a perfect delivery boy,” the hooded character explained, as if Mark knew the details already.
“Delivery boy … delivering … what?” was all Mark could stammer.
“The product, man,” one of his new young partners answered, proudly. “The orders! You know, like Domino’s Pizza!” The others laughed uproariously. Mark didn’t see the humor.
The rest of the conversation became a blur. The only thing he remembered was the sickening, helpless feeling in the pit of his stomach.
***
“Pastor Josephson, I’m so grateful you had time to see me this morning,” the middle-aged woman said, effusively.
“Oh, no bother. Anytime you need me, that’s why I’m here. Can I get you some coffee, Mrs. Williams?”
“No thanks, I had some this morning, and it always bothers my stomach if I haver too much, you know.”
“Fine. Here, have a seat. Let me pull my chair around.” He steered his chair from behind his office desk and positioned it across from hers.
“So, how have you been?”
“Well, I’ve been better.’ She started slowly.
Ed Josephson waited, his most empathetic face securely in place.
“You see, well … You know, it’s kinda like … like when I go to the doctor. I rarely go unless I have two problems to talk about. If there’s only one, I feel like it’s a waste of his time!”
They both chuckled together politely.
“I think I’m sorta that way, too.”
“Well, speaking of doctors, I went to mine about two weeks ago. For my routine exam, you know.” She paused, looking down at the purse in her lap.
“Well, he ran some tests, and then … ran some more.”
After an unusually long pause, Reverend Josephson ventured a quiet “uh-huh.”
“Well, they found … ca-ancer.” She finally managed, with a crack in her voice.
“Oh, dear, Mrs. Williams. I’m so sorry.”
She didn’t look up from her purse.
“How did Charley take the news?” He knew her husband was not always the most sensitive kind of guy.
“I … I … haven’t told him … yet.”
“Oh, Mrs. Williams … Elizabeth, don’t you think you should? He needs to be there…” he stumbled.
“Yes, yes, I know.” She halted again.
“Would you like me to perhaps be there with you when you tell him?”
“Well, I … you know—” She paused. He could tell there was something else in the picture. Something big. Bigger than cancer, at least to her.
“Pastor … I found some texts on his phone … texts to … another woman.” This time her eyes welled up. “I was just tidying up some things on the kitchen table and picked up his phone and accidentally pressed that little button on the side there, you know?” She looked up, hoping to be vindicated for her actions.
“Oh, my. And you’re sure …” He paused to collect his thoughts.
“Oh …” Her face reddened in anger and disgust. “Oh yes, I’m sure! Those texts … those words … we’ve never said such … even in … the privacy of …” She blushed and looked down again.
“Oh, Mrs. Williams. I don’t know what to say …”
There was a knock on the study door. Ed Josephson was half exasperated and half relieved. The secretary poked her head around the jamb and whispered. “Pastor, there’s a call from Mark’s school on line 2.”
***
As he drove to the school, his mind was awhirl with memories of his own wife’s cancer. She had gone so fast. and it still seemed like only yesterday. Being a minister, he really was given no time to grieve. He had to be strong. Strong for his people.
Now he had to comfort another woman — and man — in the same situation. He didn’t know if he had it in him.
He pulled to a stop at a red light. Without realizing it, he was directly across from the funeral home where his wife’s service had been held only six months earlier. As the traffic moved again, he had to pull over to the side. His eyes had welled up and he couldn’t see clearly. He sat. Waiting.
A police car cruising by snapped him out of his daze. Then his phone buzzed. A text from his son. Where are you, dad? He took a deep breath, paused again, then put the car in gear.
Walking in from the front parking lot, he flashed back to his time in junior high. Except now he was expected to come in the front door — the visitor’s entrance — where students rarely entered. He was the parent now, the authority figure. Huh! He hardly felt like an authority today. Especially heading into the assistant principal’s office for a talk about ‘something’ his son did. What could his son have done? There must have the wrong kid. That’s what it was, a mistake. Probably a case of mistaken identity.
He took a deep breath as he swung open the office door.
“Mr. Josephson … or it’s Reverend Josephson, right? Glad you could come so quickly. Please. Have a seat.” He was motioned to a mustard-colored plastic chair in front of the assistant principal’s desk, next to his son who sat slumped in the matching chair next to him. Mark didn’t even look up at him as he entered. The assistant principal’s eyes made quick circuit from the boy to the father then to the papers on his desk.
“Well, Reverend Josephson, we have a situation here that is a difficult one, to say the least. In fact, at this point we are seeking more to minimize the damages as much as anything else …” He trailed off as he looked down at some official-looking documents on his desk. Mr. Josephson thought he eyed the seal on the local police department on one of the papers in front of him.
“What is the problem?” he asked, slightly exasperated at not getting the full picture as soon as he walked in.
The man across the desk looked up at him, with a dull smirk on his face and that ‘you-should-already-know’ look in his eye. “Your son was caught selling drugs on school grounds.”
The pastor’s stomach sank. He thought for a moment to ask him to repeat it, but he had heard it clearly enough. Unconsciously, he had thought the problem would be a matter of his grades needing improvement. That he could handle — longer hours with the homework at night — fewer hours of screen time. Easy enough fixed.
But this?! His head swam. What would Mark’s mother say? I’ve let her down. She would never forgive me. How could it come to this?
“… first offense, the local police have offered to settle it …,” Mr. Josephson’s head returned to the conversation, “… with an extended suspension, a stern warning, and an official reprimand in his school transcript …”
His permanent record? What would that do his chances for college? He wasn’t that great a student in the first place, not like his brother. But at least it would …
“… would keep him out a jail” the principal continued, as if reading his mind.
“I do have to inform you, Mr. Josephson, that if your son is seen on school property during his suspension, or, afterward, is caught distributing again, he will be charged as an adult and prosecuted to the full extent of the law.” His words were chillingly official. “There are some papers for you to sign. Then you can take your son home.”
He and they signed whatever was put in front of them. Dismissive handshakes were made all around and they were back in the hallway, with several feet between father and son, headed for the front door and the car.
***
“Three weeks off from school? Sweet!” Chuck high-fived his brother. The smile on Chuck’s face was considerably wider than that on Mark’s. Mark turned away and headed for his room.
“Hey, what’s up? This’ll be great with the girls. What a rep builder!”
“Shut up! Just … just shut up.” Mark growled over his shoulder. “You idiot!” was his last word as he slammed his door behind him.
Chuck was reveling in their new street cred. He and his bro … totally bad! The guys stepped out of his way as he walked the halls — if he wasn’t imagining it.
But it was the girls. The girls seemed to actually slide closer as he past by. And this wasn’t his imagination.
But most of all, it was Julie he was keeping an eye out for. She was his mission and she was already ‘softened up,’ as his online war games called it.
He rounded the corner on the way to home room when he ran right into her. The physical contact first embarrassed him, then excited him when he realized who it was he had run into.
“Hey, Chuck, I heard your brother got tossed from school…” she teased and flirted.
Again, he was confused by her approach, so he just said, “Yeah.”
“So, you still coming over this weekend?”
“Uh, yeah,” he repeated, his adolescent tongue getting further twisted.
“Maybe you can bring some beer?”
“Uh, sure. Yeah, yeah, I can do that,” he lied. Where and how was he going to get beer? He had a few more days to figure that out, though. So he just stood and smiled at Julie.
“You’re weird … but kinda cute.” She patted his cheek, then rested her hand briefly on his chest. It was like an electric paddle to his heart. He perceptibly swayed backwards a bit. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” he repeated a third time. Boy, what a vocabulary I have, he thought. “Well, see ya Saturday!” He said, too quickly, and continued on his way to home room, several inches off the ground.
***
Night time finally rolled around, none to soon for Ed Josephson. The commentaries he had brought home from his office in hopes that he could concentrate on them after dinner, sat untouched on a side table. His mind was still spinning with the news from school, and his worries about what would happen when the church board heard about it. He was doomed. This prize of a position would come to a screeching halt. He would be another one of those disgraced ministers he heard about on TV or in some church news magazine.
The vision of his wife appeared in his head once more. Just the look in her eyes was enough to slay him. His tears welled and his palms began to sweat. He got up from his easy chair, walked over, and reached down into the lower cabinet of his bookshelf. He poured himself a strong one and gulped it down too fast to enjoy it. Then poured another. He was glad both his sons were out with friends. It was going to be a long night.
***
The weekend was upon them. It was the usual household chores and yard work for Ed Josephson. He wondered momentarily why his sons were never around help him with these tasks, but ‘boys will be boys’ was all he could say. One was still sleeping and the other was already off with his buddies — at least he presumed they were his buddies, they way they honked at him from their old pickup at the curb. Ed wondered at the strange shaped bag that Mark was lugging, but then made nothing of it.
There were weeds to pull and dishes to do …
Later, back in the house, Ed heard his older son behind the door as he dragged the vacuum cleaner down the hall. He must have been on the phone.
“You got an ID, right? Why can’t I borrow it? What the … You let Greg use it last weekend. Come on! Yeah, just this once. Hey, no ID, no score, if you know what I mean … Fantastic! I’ll be by to pick it up. Yeah, bye.”
His father thought Chuck had lost his school pass to get into tonight’s game or something. He was always misplacing things. Oh well, when they’re out on their own they’ll be more responsible, he mused. In the meanwhile, he supposed it was nice to have them around. You know, male companionship and all.
He had hardly completed that thought when his son came barreling out the door, throwing on a hoodie as he headed for the front door. Gee, not even a “good morning’ or a “see you later dad.”
All part of the deal, Ed thought as he wheeled the hoover into the boys room.
A few minutes into the job, as he was lifting the corner of the bedspread to attack the dust bunnies beneath, he noticed several small white envelopes. He scooped them up. He recognized them as offering envelopes from his church, specifically printed for the recent Thanksgiving charity service. They were each stamped with an anonymous account number in the corner. Five envelopes. Five different numbers. Strange.
He shrugged and stepped over to the unused trash can in the corner of the bedroom, then thought better of it. He folded them over and slid them into his pocket.
***
As pastor, Ed Josephson’s life was measured in Sundays. It was sermon prep, visitation, board meetings, denominational issues, staff issues. Then it all started again.
Soon he realized that four Sundays had gone by without any issues with his boys. Life was good. You know, a man deserves some peace and quiet in his life, especially when he works for the Lord as hard as Ed did.
He was strangely even admiring his fine desk, donated by an old furniture-maker in the congregation generations ago, and the well-appointed landscape out the office window. The deacons did fine work maintaining the property.
His glance settled back to a paperweight on this desk, or rather what was under it. The odd offering envelopes he had rescued from Chuck’s bedroom. He had an idea.
The church treasurer was in the building that morning, doing his quarterly audit. Ed grabbed the envelopes and headed down the hall to the church library where the accountant liked to work. His laptop and papers were spread over the table.
“Hey, Jeffrey! How are you today?”
“Fine, Ed, how ‘bout you.”
“Doing well, doing well. Hey, you know, I got a question.”
“Sure, what’s up?”
“I was wondering, have you settled all the accounts from that last year Thanksgiving offering we had?”
“Sure, I don’t like to get behind on that sort of thing. Especially when it’s community-wide like that.”
“Great. Good. Tell me, are you able to look up some numbered-envelope contributions?”
“Well, yeah, that’s how we keep track of member giving. You know I won’t be able to tell you what they gave — ethically, I mean.”
“No, that’s fine. I understand.” Ed handed Jeffrey the envelopes. “Can you look up these numbers and see if they gave anything?”
“Sure thing.” The auditor clicked over to his giving software and pulled up that event. Ed was always impressed with people who were really savvy with computers … and with money.
“Okay … here they … Nope, nothing from this one.” He laid one envelope aside and picked up another.
“And … “ He scrolled down again. “Nope.”
He continued through all five envelopes, each with the same result.
“Sorry, Ed. Nothing from any of those. And I can tell you it’s strange, ‘cause those folks are usually good givers.”
“One more thing, then, Jeff. Can you save those names for me?”
***
He stepped down to the staff coffee kitchen in the church basement just as the church janitor was emptying a trash can.
“Hey, Pastor, how’re you doing?” he asked cheerfully.
“Can’t complain, Oscar, how are you this fine day?”
“No complaints here either. You know, there is something that’s been puzzling me, though …”
“Oh, yeah. What’s that?”
“Well, I was cleaning up the sacristy the other day and came up with a strange wrapper stuck behind the choir robe rack.”
“A strange wrapper?” he chuckled, curious, as he placed the carafe back in the coffee maker.
“Yeah, one of those energy bars they make these days. And expensive one. Made in Europe, I think. Or at least made to look like it. It had a Swiss name … or German maybe.”
When he tried to pronounce the name, the pastor recognized it immediately as the ones that Chuck ate. His trash cans were always filled with the wrappers.
Ed Josephson’s coffee got caught in his throat.
“You all right, Ed?”
“Yeah, yeah … “ he paused with a puzzled look on his face. “I’m okay.”
“Your son’s not in the choir, is he?”
“No. No, not the last time I checked.”
Ed bade the janitor a good day and headed back upstairs to his office. He placed his cup on his desk and sat himself behind a wall of commentaries, trying to rid his mind of the mystery of the candy wrapper and why it, or rather his son, was in the sacristy — under the choir robes.
As he sat, the paper with the five names from the auditor crackled in his back pockets. He drew it out and flattened it out on the edge of this desk.
A strange, bad feeling for forming in his head.
He reached for a church directory on the credenza behind this desk, then for the phone.
Five phone calls. Five of the same answers — or at least four. One was a no-answer.
As Jeffrey had suspected. These people had all given money. More than one admitted that they had given a “stretch” amount that year. Had they been motivated by my sermon? Ed stopped himself from thinking such a thought.
A scenario was forming in his mind, though he was repulsed by it. Had Chuck somehow gotten hold of that cash? How could he? His church was always careful with offerings.
He had just about freed himself when another wave crashed over him.
“Pastor, you have a rather angry-sounding caller on line two,” the church secretary said from his doorway.
“Hello, Josephson!?” the voice on the other end like a punch in the jaw.
“Uh, yes, this is Ed Josephson,” he responded, wondering what was going on. If this guy was telemarketer, he needed a little more training.
“Your son’s Chuck?” His father preferred to call him Charles, but he knew he went by Chuck at school.
“Yes. Yes he is.”
“My girl’s pregnant!”
“Uh … Okay …”
“Look, idiot! Don’t play dumb with me. Your son did it!”
“Uh, what? Wait, no way! He’s … he’s not that kind …”
“He’s got the necessary equipment, right”
Ed, embarrassed, sat silent on the other end.
“What … what’s your … daughter’s name. I’ll ask Chuck about her,” was all he could offer.
“Oh, sure. Take his word for it. It’s my daughter who’s home crying her eyes out in her room. Her life’s ruined. And you don’t gotta live with her mother!”
“But he’s a responsible boy. He went to those classes. He knows about …” he trailed off, not really knowing who he was actually talking to.
“Oh, you bet he’s ‘responsible’! And if you weren’t a minister, I’d come over and smash …” But all Ed heard was, ‘if you weren’t a minister’.
***
Dear Paster Josephson,
Please be assured that this is a very difficult letter for us to write…
The board has carefully considered the impact of your family issues on the life of our congregation, and feel at this time that it would be best for all concerned that we sever our pastoral relationship…
Ed stood in the middle of his entry hall, the FedEx envelope on the floor at his feet. His life was over …
He stumbled into the family room and reached down into the lower cabinet of his bookshelf.
“Thou shalt not take the name of the LORD thy God in vain; for the LORD will not hold him guiltless that taketh his name in vain.” — Exodus 20:7
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