The stories in this collection are works of fiction. All characters and events are a product of my imagination. Any resemblance to people living or dead, or events, is coincidental.
Cover photo and design by Kimberli Buffaloe Copyright © 2015 All rights reserved.
Stories by Kimberli Buffaloe Copyright © 2014 All rights reserved.
No part of these stories may be duplicated or distributed in any form, including, but not limited to, sites offering free downloads, novels, collections, or blogs published under another author’s name, or peer-to-peer sites (with the exception of small snippets for the purpose of review.)
Eternal Weight of Glory
Lessons from the Landscape - Short Stories of Faith
Eternal Weight of Glory
To Matt, Laura, and all others in the field who give, or who have given, their all that others might live. And to my husband, Kelley. May I better support you in the ministry which God has bestowed upon you.
“We fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.”
Four people, two vastly different problems. But which is the "light affliction" Paul spoke about in 2 Corinthians 4:17, and which is the real danger threatening the church?
Veronica
Loneliness is toxic. It killed my grandfather after my grandmother passed away, and it’s slowly killing me.
That’s what my husband doesn’t understand. The anvil pulling me into a pit isn’t passing Nordstrom to shop at Sam’s, though Michael thinks it is. Even living in a house that will shatter when stones finally sail through the glass walls doesn’t bother me as much as the change that occurred when Michael answered the call. I surrendered my dream of a quiet life with my husband, while a temptation neither of us had foreseen quietly lures him away.
“Veronica.”
Michael’s gentle nudge brought me back to the vestibule. White light flooding the open door forced me to blink. With a smile, I extended my hand to the delicate collection of bones standing before me and said, “It’s so good to see you,” though months have passed since my husband has said the same to me.
~~
Michael started the car and flipped the air conditioner to maximum. “Where were you in there? You looked right through Mrs. Pritchard, not that it’s hard to do. Can you believe how thin she is? I told her you were probably concerned about leaving the slow cooker on during church. What’s going on, Ronnie?”
I angled the vent, diverting air that had lost its chill the previous year. Michael knows I hate that name, so he pricks me with it when he wants to make a point. “My mind drifted.” I slipped on my sunglasses, reducing the glare. “Edwin.”
Edwin Michael Sayers smiled and waved at a young couple passing the car. “Okay, I’m sorry I used The Name. But seriously, babe…” He dropped his hand on my knee. “What’s going on with you lately? I need you in there, you know that.”
Brown grass and cedar trees stunted by Texas drought swept by as Michael drove the aging Nissan over melting asphalt. I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to. Like a doctor who takes an entire minute to collect symptoms, Michael is certain he has already diagnosed the disease.
“They waited a long time to find someone they meshed with,” he continued. “With my speaking engagements piling up and now this radio program, I need your help ministering to them.”
“I’m your wife, not your assistant.”
“How is serving others not your responsibility as a Christian?”
I peeled long, sweaty hair off my neck and bundled it behind my head. “They hired you, Michael, but you’re so busy, no one can find you anymore.”
“That’s why I need your help, Ronnie.”
Hard edges replaced the easy tones our marriage had once enjoyed. The conversation would soon grow ugly. Resentful words over the Gospel, faith, service to a King who sacrificed everything so others could live. Was it like this for the apostles’ wives?
Anchoring the steering wheel with his knees, Michael unbuttoned the cuffs of his dress shirt. “I just found out Mr. Thatcher is having a stint inserted tomorrow, so I’ll need to be at the hospital before nine.”
Heat from the interior of the car mixed with heat from within. “Monday is supposed to be your day off.”
“An elderly man is going in for surgery, leaving his elderly wife all alone in the waiting room. Do you really want me to abandon them so you can go shopping? Come on. Even you can’t be that cold.”
I focused on a nonexistent point beyond palatial homes blurring past the window, my anger boiling in the noonday sun. As we drove through Dallas in silence, the distance growing between us told me it was time.
Veronica
I dreamed I saw King David dancing on a street in Jerusalem that somehow had parking meters and curbs. The Ark of the Covenant, the one I remember from Raiders of the Lost Ark, moved before him, and his army followed behind. He wore a dingy cloth wrapped like a diaper, and he danced, danced despite the dust and the smiling crowds along the sidewalks leaning toward one another in silent whispers. I watched through a glassless window high above the cramped city where I stood breathless, detached.
Alone.
Michael left a message at noon. “I’m sorry this is taking so long. Mr. Thatcher should be out of surgery soon. The blockage was more extensive than they thought, and Mrs. Thatcher has been a mess all morning. Given her age, I’m afraid to leave her alone. Let’s see, what else. Pat called. She’s visiting family this weekend and can’t play the piano on Sunday. I told her you would fill in. Hope you don’t mind. Oh, and the head of the Ministers Association asked if I could speak to the group on Friday. Seems a couple of them heard the program and they want to hear about our progress. Isn’t that great? The phone just beeped. I have another call coming in. Talk to you soon. Love you.”
The message ended, and I placed my phone in the passenger seat. This had become our weekly routine, and I could picture Michael doodling points on a napkin before he called. First, the ministry need with enough detail to justify his absence and ensure my understanding. Next, the bad news followed by an announcement. Several months ago, it was a radio show, then a book contract. All would lead to more speaking engagements. More requests to fill pulpits. More time away from me.
Michael’s ministering style had a far more positive response than anyone had expected. The seats filled within six months and bulged the following year. Soon after, pulpit committees began to call. Michael sent them away. With a swelling congregation that required a new facility and more visitations, he had work to do.
I nudged my old Accord down the interstate. The exit for Marshall lay ahead. Shreveport was less than two hours away, which meant I should reach Alexandria, Louisiana, by the time Michael thought to call again.
The dust-colored image of Jerusalem pressed itself against my mind’s eye. David danced as he brought the ark home. He danced his joy. He danced his thanks. With people knocking on our door hoping to learn the secret of my husband’s success, I couldn’t begin the next phase of our lives until I knew why Michael danced.
Michael
Michael Sayers turned off Greenville Avenue and braced himself for the argument to come. So it was after nine. So he’d missed spending another day off with Veronica. A man had died and left behind an elderly widow who needed comfort and guidance. Anyone would understand why he couldn’t abandon her for window shopping or a movie.
Anyone but his wife. She even refused to pick up the phone so he could explain. Granted, he’d forgotten to call until after dinner, but it was the first time someone had died
while holding his hand. Veronica liked the Thatchers. She should have been there for them. For him. He’d nearly lost it when a deep rattle erupted from Mr. Thatcher’s chest and the light faded from his eyes. He’d needed her and once again, she wasn’t there.
The one-story ranch that had replaced their 3,000 square-foot home in Austin nearly blended with the darkness. She’d gone to bed early again to get even and didn’t turn on the porch light. He pulled into the driveway and slammed the gear into park. This had to stop. He couldn’t be an effective minister with a wife throwing tantrums twice a week. She would either have to agree to his counseling or change her attitude, which had just sunk to the level of a spoiled prom queen. She’d known the ministry would change their lives, that it would require more from him. They’d held hands and prayed about it, so what was her problem?
Floral air freshener met him inside the door instead of the smell of dinner warming in the oven as he’d expected. He would have to scrounge up something after the face-off. “I get the message. I’m late, I’m sorry.” He flipped on the light and unbuttoned his shirt, which reeked of hospital antiseptic. “If you had answered the phone you would have known poor Mr. Thatcher died. I can’t believe you—”
He opened the bedroom door. The king-size poster bed they’d purchased before downsizing square footage stood empty, the paisley comforter smooth over the mattress. The spare bedroom. She’d been threatening to sleep there for weeks. He went down the hall and turned on the lights. Empty.
“Veronica, where are you?” He veered into the kitchen. No dish sat on the counter. No note hung on the refrigerator door.
Did she go to the mall? She wouldn't have, not after some thug had shot a woman in her car.
The answering machine light blinked with seven calls. Leaning against the kitchen counter, Michael grabbed a pen and listened to each message, jotting notes on the back of an envelope. The last call beeped, and Veronica’s voice—calm and without emotion—filled the room. As the message played, he slipped into the kitchen chair.
Atlanta, Georgia
Brent Westberg popped the footrest on his recliner and relaxed into the plush seat. With a click of the remote, the television blinked on. He accessed the DVR, scrolled past his wife’s Food Network recordings, and highlighted the game. Throughout the day, he’d heard snippets about the debacle, but each time, he’d walked away before some well-meaning fan gave him a play-by-play with color. He didn’t know which side bombed the catch. He didn’t want to know. After a long day at the office, he had the entire night to find out for himself.
Stephanie peeked into the living room. “Honey, do you need anything?”
“Something to drink would be nice. Did you buy Coke or Pepsi?”
“Coke, but you can’t have caffeine this late, you know that. Do you want lemonade?”
The phone trilled on the table beside him. “Lemonade. Now there’s a manly drink.”
Steph fluttered her eyes. “I hear tell Stonewall Jackson loved lemonade. Is that manly enough for you?”
“That’s probably why our side shot him.” He picked up the receiver. “Y’ello.”
“Mr. Westberg?” A man’s voice, faded by distance, broke at intervals. “This is Spence Riley. We have a problem.”
Brent lowered the footrest with his heel. A problem in that neck of the world meant more than a possible ride on a silver bird. “Go ahead, son. You’re breaking up, so talk slow. I don't want to miss any details.”
“One of our field guys disa…eared. Reports indicate he’s been arrested.”
“Name and location?”
“Ritterman, sir. Steve…itterman. He’s in…..”
Veronica
Sleep had become a luxury. Michael usually succumbed to fatigue somewhere between midnight and one, and rose before seven. My body needed more rest, but light sleeper that I am, I had no choice but to mirror his pattern. I’d suggested separate rooms, “On occasion, just to catch up.” Michael circled his arm around my waist, pulled me close, and told me we were too young. He would miss me. I wondered if he missed me now.
After arriving in New Orleans the previous night, I’d ordered room service, then went to bed. Routine woke me at seven. I considered staying put simply because I could, but the bathroom and hot beignets called.
I slipped from beneath a thick comforter that failed to provide the warmth my husband could and checked my phone for messages. Long after tears had lulled me to sleep, Michael had called—just once—and left a voicemail and text. Both would wait as I promised they would in the message I’d left explaining I’d taken the vacation he’d promised for two years. “One day for every day you missed spending with me.” What funds my mother had provided for the trip, and my longing for Michael, wouldn’t permit such a lengthy separation, but I’d made my point.
Dressed in a calf-length white sundress and matching wide-brimmed hat, I stepped onto Bourbon Street. The hotel was far too costly, and if Michael had known I’d booked a room in the French Quarter, he would once again accuse me of longing for the affluence of our former lives, never believing my choice involved convenience and safety. Not until he discovered whose life I was protecting.
Though early, people wandered down the street, their shoes peeling off the sticky sidewalk. Across the street, a group of young men tap danced for spare change. Heat poured through the Quarter, intensifying the stench of urine and beer. My stomach lurched. Fanning my face with my hand, I turned my attention to the scene Michael had introduced me to on our first anniversary.
Then, as now, morning light had deepened the hues of historic buildings, and thick plumes of ferns tumbled over wrought iron rails of picturesque balconies. And then, as now, a wiry man with a scheme in his smile had approached. Pointing at Michael’s feet, he’d said, “I bet I can tell what state you’re from by your shoes.”
Without hesitation, my husband flashed his boyish smile. “And I’ll bet I can tell you if you're going to heaven or hell by yours.”
The man flinched, but smiled again and took the challenge. For the next few minutes, Michael the attorney drilled the man, asking how often he crossed the threshold of bars and bedrooms, casinos and side alleys. The man listened as Michael spoke of a loving but just God who wouldn’t permit sin in His presence, and of the gift of forgiveness He’d given through his son, Jesus. Understanding and joy replaced the shifty look the man had previously worn. As Michael would later testify, it was his first call to ministry.
“Did you hear me?” The man’s replacement jabbed my arm. “I bet I can tell you what state you’re from by your shoes.”
I tucked my purse closer to my side and diverted my gaze. “I already know, thank you.” Though by now, Michael must be wondering if that still held true. I longed to call and reassure him, but breaking my silence would break my resolve.
A whiskered man who looked as if he needed water, not the bottle of vodka he set on a windowsill of a bar, glanced at me with desperate eyes. As I passed, the saloon-style front doors flung open and a woman perfumed with beer stumbled out. My stomach turned, then clenched, and before I could control it, hot vomit spewed on the sidewalk.
Michael
Michael perched on the edge of a chair in a waiting room reserved for weddings and funerals. Elbows on knees, hands clasped to keep them from wringing, he ignored the funeral-home director and focused on Mrs. Thatcher. Her skin, the consistency of parchment, hung on her face and arms, and her eyes were round with the shock of losing the man she’d stood beside through better or worse for forty-nine years. Burial arrangements were the last thing she could face, but face it she did despite her grief and the pressure the director mounted. Did she want an open casket? Yes, it would cost more, as would the make-up artist it required, but it would allow friends and loved ones to say a proper goodbye. What kind of casket did she want for the man she loved?
Every item came with a hefty price, and it would run into the tho
usands if someone didn’t intervene. He would have remembered that if Veronica’s latest production hadn’t distracted him.
Michael placed a hand on loose skin that felt as if it should be covering a turkey leg. “Mrs. Thatcher, I know you want to give him the best, but you know how he was with a dime. At any time during your marriage, did he discuss his funeral?”
“Well, of course. Most couples do. He said—”
“After many years of helping families make final arrangements for their loved ones,” the man in the gray suit said with a practiced smile, “I’ve found the funeral isn’t about the one who left, but about those who are left behind.”
Michael kept his gaze on Mrs. Thatcher. “What did he say?”
A sad smile brightened watery gray eyes. “He said to bury him in a pine box and use the rest of the money to take that cruise to Greece we’d talked about, and then….”
The memory of the conversation reviving her, Mrs. Thatcher rattled off instructions. Within minutes, arrangements were made and money saved. Michael made a mental note to have his secretary help Mrs. Thatcher arrange a trip to Greece after the older woman dealt with her grief.
After he showed his own wife the face of real love.
After the funeral director left, they discussed the service. “We’ll want your Veronica to play the piano,” Mrs. Thatcher said. “Charles so loved her rendition of ‘Amazing Grace’.”
Michael stared at her in silence. Unless Veronica changed her mind about checking messages, she wouldn’t be attending the funeral. Wouldn’t, because she had no idea Mr. Thatcher had passed on. He would have to go alone. What kind of wife would do that to her husband? Why hadn’t she bothered to talk to him before she ran off? If she’d sat him down, informed him she was desperate for a vacation, he would have carved out a few days from his schedule.