3

I guess people think the Willing Workers run the church, and between them and the deacons, in fact, they do. The preacher we’ve got they take for a wimp. Young and old alike call him Preacher Bob like he has not got a last name nor seminary training to boot. In public I make it my business to call him Reverend Osborne, and in private, Pastor Osborne, and I can tell he appreciates this, though he is not the kind of man to put himself forward. As Splurgeon would say, “He whose worth speaks will not speak his own worth.”

The wife he has got was once the saddest looking creature you ever laid eyes on. But she wasn’t always like that. When they came to Live Oaks sixteen years ago, she was the prettiest bride ever you saw, and they were both full of pep—full of fun and anxious to do good things here. They worked together like hand in glove. Went knocking on doors and got people in church who had not darkened the doors for years. They really wore theirselves out reaching the young people. They’d take them on hikes, hayrides, wiener roasts, summer camps, and such, don’t you know. Both of them could sing, but then she quit singing in the choir. I don’t know how many young people went off to Bible school because of the Osbornes’ work. But a lot of the older people criticized him for spending too much of his time with the young people when there were shut-ins and sick folks he needed to be taking care of.

Back then, Reverend Osborne preached with passion and held street meetings long after that kind of thing was not done anymore. That’s when the deacons told him they wanted him to “move along with the times,” and little by little, that’s what came to pass at Apostolic Bible.

Reverend Osborne didn’t cave in, but there were changes in Live Oaks that had a bearing on the way things were going in the church. When the mill closed, people had to move away to find work, so there weren’t much point in preaching on the streets if there weren’t nobody listening. And as soon as the teenagers needed jobs, they left town, and that was the end of the youth work.

So Pastor Osborne was left having more funerals than weddings, but he didn’t leave; he kept right on tending the flock, visiting the sick and holding their hands when they were dying. It wasn’t until this new crop of young’uns came along that the deacons decided to hire a music director who could keep the teenyboppers in church.

I watched our preacher through all of this, and to my way of thinking, it seasoned him. People said the light in his study at the church was on late at night. Of course, there was a mean opinion going around that he dreaded going home, but I knew he was in there poring over the Scriptures and books that lined the shelves of that little cubbyhole. It showed in his sermons. We got something to think about or to do every time he spoke, and he never lost sight of Jesus. I believe that’s what brought the new high school Spanish teacher to Apostolic. She’d not been born again long, and she drank in that new wine like it was Gatorade. The preacher’s critics would’ve liked to have him lighten up. They would’ve liked for him to clown around in the pulpit like that preacher at Bethel does, but he didn’t. And I, for one, needed that red meat of the Word he gave us.

I have a notion that Pastor Osborne spent a lot of time on his knees. He sure had a lot to pray about, mainly his wife.

Like I said before, Betty Osborne was not the same woman she’d been as a bride. I can’t remember exactly how old she was when they came here, but now she was pushing forty, one side or the other, maybe thirty-nine and holding. She bemoaned the fact that they didn’t have any children, and like the kudzu vines taking over the abandoned mill, it was eating away at her, just swallowing her whole. The hardest time for her was when her husband dedicated a baby in church. When one of the Neely boys and his wife brought their twins to the front for dedication, Betty burst into tears and ran out of the service.

I couldn’t guess whether she had taken them fertilizer treatments or not. She must have, because she had given up on ever having a baby. But I didn’t think he had. Why do I say that? Well, there was a young unmarried girl in the next town who got pregnant once, and her family tried to persuade her to give up the baby. Her parents came to the Osbornes and asked them if they would not like to have the child, seeing as how they were good Christians. Then maybe their daughter might come to her senses and be willing to part with her baby when it came. Betty got all excited, but the pastor said they’d have to pray about it. When the family came back again, Reverend Osborne said no, that it would be cruel to take the baby away from its mama if the mama didn’t want to let go.

After that, Betty Osborne was not only depressed, she was so mad at him she took her leave and flew off to her mama’s and stayed away three weeks.

I’d not say this even to Beatrice, but I figured it was probably his fault they couldn’t make babies. That’s the kind of thing can make a man lose heart in himself. Make him so sober he don’t laugh no more, and although Reverend Osborne would smile, that was about it. Must’ve been that medicine they advertise on TV for a man’s problem didn’t work for him, or else he had not tried it. The only doctor we’ve got here is Dr. Elsie, and it might be because she’s a woman that Pastor Osborne goes up to the University Medical Center for his checkups. Dr. Elsie is a good doctor, but she’s getting old. When she retires, I doubt we can get another doctor to come here.

Well, now, let me get back to Reverend Osborne (my mind takes a notion now and then to wander all over the place). It’s hard to describe the pastor, but I tell you flat out, he is no wimp. Even back when I first knew him, I could tell he was the kind of man who’d make a good father. Kindness is his middle name, and patience is his long suit. Otherwise he would’ve pulled up stakes long ago and left Apostolic on account of the officers and members he has to deal with here.

The reason I knew he would be a good father was because he had a good father. One time when he was helping me shell pecans, he told me about his daddy—said they were very poor and that his daddy worked two jobs to make a living for his family. But even so, he found the time to be with his boy—played catch with him, took him fishing and such. But mainly it was the things he taught his son. Pastor Osborne said his daddy taught him how to get along with people, how to make his money make do, all kinds of things. Showed him how to always look out for poor people.

When he was telling me about his daddy, I could see in his eyes how much he was wanting a boy of his own. I could understand that, because Bud had always wanted a son. Bud was overseas when our baby was born dead, and when he came back with his mind gone and his body full of shrapnel, there weren’t opportunity for us to make another one. Our baby was a boy too. Full term. To this day, I can’t think about what a comfort and joy it would be to me if our baby had lived and was now grown to manhood. I just have to put it out of my mind.

I always believed that if Reverend Osborne had a son, he would be a different man. Joy would come back in him. And I tell you, I knew he would grow a boy into a good, solid man like himself.

And since that happened about Betty Osborne running off thataway, the burden for them to have a family never left me. So far nothing had come of all my praying, and it looked like the Lord was going to let her clock run down without giving her any offspring. It sure was hard to understand. Frankly, I didn’t.