21

Sam was taking a nap when the telephone woke him up. He’d been up late the night before, unable to sleep after learning Harmony Friends Meeting had hired a new pastor. In the back of his mind, he’d nurtured the hope they might call him to say a mistake had been made, that they had acted in haste and wanted him to return to his job. But the hiring of Paul Fletcher had scuttled that possibility. The finality of his situation hit hard. His days of pastoring in his hometown were over. Maybe his chances of pastoring anywhere were over. He’d contacted a dozen churches that were looking to hire a minister and not one of them had bit.

He reached the kitchen phone on the fifth ring.

“Hello.”

“Hello. Is this the Gardner residence?”

“Yes, it is.”

“My name is Ruby Hopper and I’m calling—”

“Not interested. Take my name and number off your calling list, please.”

“Wait, don’t hang up. This isn’t a sales call.”

“Yeah, that’s what they always say. I don’t want to hear a sales pitch. I don’t want to take a survey. I don’t want to talk about insurance, credit cards, or mortgages. My roof is fine. I don’t need new gutters. And my basement is dry.”

“I didn’t call about any of those things. I’m the clerk of the Hope Friends Meeting pastoral search committee, and am calling to see if you might be interested in talking with us about an opening we have.”

An opening!

“Excuse me, what church are you from?” Sam asked.

“Hope Friends Meeting.”

“Hope Friends Meeting,” Sam repeated. “Oh, yes, you’re up in the city, right?”

“Not right in the city,” Ruby explained. “We’re south of the airport, just outside the city. In the suburbs, actually.”

“Yeah, I remember now. You’re the ones with the meetinghouse in the beech trees. I went to an American Friends Service Committee meeting there about ten years ago.”

“Yes, that’s us.”

“I thought you closed your doors,” Sam said. “I haven’t heard anything about you for a while.”

“The superintendent is under the impression we don’t matter, but I assure you we are very much alive.”

Sam was suddenly intrigued. Any meeting on the wrong side of the superintendent had to be doing something right.

“We understand you’ve been let go by Harmony Meeting,” Ruby said. “Is that right?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Miriam Hodge is my first cousin. She explained your situation to me. We were hoping we could meet with you this week to discuss an opportunity for ministry. Perhaps tomorrow evening.”

“I’ve been in touch with several churches,” Sam said, which wasn’t technically a lie, since he had, in fact, been in touch with several churches, though none had been in touch back. “Could I check my calendar and call you back?”

“You certainly may.” She gave Sam her phone number, thanked him for his time, said good-bye, and hung up.

Sam hurried down the stairs, two steps at a time, to the junk drawer in the kitchen, where he found the book of statistics for Quaker meetings. Hope Friends Meeting… weekly attendance: twelve… annual pastoral salary, not much, but better than nothing. It beat sweeping hair at the Kut-N-Kurl.

But, geez, only twelve people, Sam thought. How in the world can they afford a pastor?

He waited an hour before calling Ruby back. No sense in letting her think he was desperate.

“Hello, Ruby Hopper. Sam Gardner here. I’ve managed to free up tomorrow evening, so I’ll be happy to come your way. Would you like my wife to come, too?”

“That is entirely up to you. We would enjoy meeting her, but we are very aware that we’re interviewing you, not her.”

Sam was impressed. He had heard of churches who hired pastors without trotting their spouses through a dog-and-pony show, but had never personally encountered one.

“I will leave the decision to her,” Sam said, though he had no intention of doing so. Barbara was going whether she wanted to or not. He would sooner take on a terrorist cell by himself than face a pastoral search committee without backup.

“In any event, we look forward to seeing you tomorrow evening, at seven o’clock, at our meetinghouse.”

“See you then,” Sam promised, happier, as his grandpa used to say, than a possum in a corncrib with the dog tied up.