A smile snuck past Avis’s fatigue as she climbed the stairs to their third-floor apartment late Wednesday afternoon. Only two more days of school—and Friday was just an hour to pick up report cards and satisfy the school board that it was a “school day.” Oh, the excitement she used to feel as a kid on that final day. School’s out, school’s out!
She started to laugh, remembering the silly pop song her brother used to belt out this time every year. “Can’t wait for summer to throw away my books . . .” The middle part was a muddle, something about “fishing hooks” and “girls in their bathing suits.” Ha. But she could still hear her brother belting out the last line: “Can’t wait for summer, for good ol’ summertime!”
Ah, those were the days. She’d been nine years old when the sixties rolled in. Summer meant playing hopscotch on the sidewalk outside their walk-up in Philly. Screaming and jumping in water spraying from a fire hydrant. Begging the boys to let her play baseball with them in the vacant lot. Innocent summer fun . . .
And then the world went crazy. The president was shot. Civil rights marches spread from city to city. Images on the TV burned themselves into her brain—snarling police dogs, fire hoses used on people, the Ku Klux Klan in their scary white hoods. Her daddy made her stay inside.
And then it got worse. Martin Luther King was shot. Hot and hopeless, people rioted in city after city, burning down their own neighborhoods.
Those were days she’d like to forget . . . like to think were behind them.
Shaking off the ugly memories, she let herself in the front door—and found Peter sprawled on the couch, watching the news on TV. “You’re home early. Everything okay?” He usually worked late on Wednesdays and went straight to the church for midweek Bible study. Except it was the congregational meeting tonight.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Just thought I’d come home early so we could, you know, go to the meeting together. I even picked up some Chinese on the way home so we wouldn’t have to cook.”
“Brownie points for you, because I’m beat.” Avis kicked off her low heels and curled up on the couch next to her husband. “Mm. Wish we could just stay home tonight. Watch a movie. Play Scrabble. Soak my feet.”
Peter snorted. “Don’t tempt me. Not exactly looking forward to this meeting tonight. But can’t let the kids downstairs show us up, can we?”
“What do you mean?”
“Nick and the little blonde—Olivia—were leaving just as I came in. She was all excited, said she just got hired as a nanny up in Wilmette starting tomorrow. They were walking up to Howard Street so they’d be on time for the meeting.”
“Just the two of them?”
“Uh-huh. They said Brygitta has to work at the coffee shop tonight, and they didn’t seem to know where Kathryn was.”
Avis shook her head. “That Kathryn—she’s a strange one. Wonder why she left so abruptly Saturday night.”
“I have no idea. Maybe you should just ask her . . . Okay, okay, I see that look! But I was proud of you, Avis. You were a gracious hostess that evening, even though she stuck up her nose at our cooking.” He chuckled. “Nick, now, he couldn’t get enough of it! Or her, for that matter.”
“Her, who?”
“Kathryn. Nick’s sweet on her. Didn’t you notice how he watches her out of the corner of his eye? And when she left, he was ready to chase after her.”
“Humph. Could just be looking out for her like a big brother.
She’s an only child, you know. She needs a big brother.”
“Huh. Those weren’t big brother looks. I’m a guy. I know these things.”
Avis laughed. “Then he’d better think twice, or he’ll be eating Dumpster food and veggie burgers the rest of his life.”
Peter scratched his chin thoughtfully. “He’s a nice kid. In fact . . . I’ve been thinking about offering him a job at Software Symphony for the summer. Would have to crunch some figures with our accountant, and it’d only be part-time, but we could use some help in the mail room. Sales picked up by a whisker last week. Maybe this economic slump is starting to turn around.”
“That’d be nice,” Avis murmured. She could feel her eyelids drooping. Oh, how she’d like to just stretch out here and fall asleep.
Peter pushed himself off the couch. “Put your feet up for five more minutes. I know how to serve up food out of those little white cardboard boxes. And then, guess we better go face the giants.”
The turnout was pretty good for a Wednesday night. Avis and Peter arrived at five to seven on purpose—not too early, to avoid getting into chatty conversations before the meeting, but not late, either. Avis hesitated before moving to her usual seat in the second row on the far right aisle. Did she want to be so close to the front tonight when at least part of the meeting would be about them? On the other hand, she didn’t really want to be looking at other people, trying to second-guess their expressions.
She and Peter sat in their usual seats.
Pastor Cobbs, looking a lot healthier this week, started the meeting right at seven, even though people were still coming in. Calling Matt Kepler to the keyboard, the pastor started off with the hymn “How Firm a Foundation.” Even though the hymn was an old one and familiar, Avis closed her eyes and heard the words as if for the first time.
How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord,
Is laid for your faith in His excellent Word! . . .
And then the second verse . . .
Fear not, I am with thee, oh, be not dismayed,
For I am thy God, and will still give thee aid;
I’ll strengthen thee, help thee, and cause thee to stand,
Upheld by My gracious, omnipotent hand.
“Thank You, Jesus,” she whispered as the hymn came to a close. She needed that assurance tonight, that God’s Word was her foundation, and His Word promised that God would never leave or forsake them, no matter what happened in this meeting tonight. Would never leave or forsake Rochelle and Conny either.
“Praise God, church!” Pastor Cobbs seemed buoyant and confident as he gripped either side of the small wooden podium. “I’m glad so many of you came tonight, as we seek God’s face about the future of SouledOut Community Church. We have several issues to attend to in the wake of the loss of our beloved Pastor Clark—one of which, certainly, is the question of calling someone to take Pastor Clark’s place as copastor of this congregation. For that we will need a pastoral search committee, and I’m suggesting that names can be submitted this evening in writing to the elders for that purpose . . . yes, Brother Meeks?”
Sherman Meeks stood, polite and humble as usual. “Thank you, Pastor. It’s true that you and Pastor Clark started this church as copastors, and it’s been a blessing. But have you considered—should we as a church consider—whether God is simply putting the mantle on you to be our pastor without calling another?” And he sat down.
A murmur rippled through the people gathered in the chairs, some heads nodding, others shaking, many whispering. “Sure would save some money in the budget,” someone cracked on the other side of the room. A few people laughed nervously. A few others said, “Amen.”
Pastor Cobbs pursed his lips a long moment before speaking. “As I shared on Sunday, I feel this church benefits from a plurality of leadership, because of the nature of this church. We are not a homogeneous church. We have a diversity of races, cultures, colors, ages—which is God’s blessing, amen?”
More amens peppered the room.
“So I believe we would do well to continue with a plurality of leadership, even though we can’t represent every one of our Heinz 57 varieties.”
More chuckles.
“Pastor?” Another hand shot up.
“Yes, Elder David.”
Now Avis did turn her head. David Brown stood up, thick glasses hiding his eyes. “I agree with you, Pastor, about needing a plurality of leadership, given our, um, mixed membership.” He swept a hand to indicate the people in the room. “But just to be clear . . . what you’re saying is, the copastor we would be looking for should be, uh, Caucasian—to be an integrated team like you and Pastor Clark.”
More murmurings. Avis felt her neck and shoulders tensing. Pastor Clark held up his hand and waited until the room quieted. “If God sends us a white pastor with a heart for unity amid our diversity, praise God. But no, I didn’t say that specifically. God might send us an Hispanic pastor, or Asian . . . I don’t want to limit what God wants to do.”
“But to be realistic,” David Brown continued, “our congregation is mostly blacks and whites. And since you already represent the African-Americans here—”
“Excuse me, Brother David. A correction.” Denny Baxter stood up, looking for all the world like a former football player, square jaw on a thick neck, All-American good looks, graying hair, dimples in his cheeks. “I’m not African-American, but Pastor Cobbs represents me. I believe both he and Pastor Clark were pastors for all of us.”
Clapping erupted around the room. Avis didn’t move. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the door open and Kathryn Davies slip into the room, finding a seat beside Nick and Olivia toward the back.
Pastor Cobbs cleared his throat. He’d lost his buoyant look. “Thank you, Brother Denny. That is certainly my heart. Brother David, I’m not sure what your point is. Can you clarify what you’re trying to say?”
David Brown stood his ground. “All I’m saying is, if in the long run we want to hire a pastor to represent the diversity among us, I’m a bit confused at the present proposal for interim leadership . . .”
“Here we go,” Peter muttered. He gripped her hand.