Eternal Weight of Glory And Other Short Stories

  The door opened, and his secretary stepped inside. “Mi—” Her eyes flickered toward Mrs. Thatcher. “Pastor Sayers?”

  Smoothing his hands along the top of his khakis, Michael sat up. “We’re almost finished, Tara.”

  Tara Monahan smiled. “If this sweet lady doesn’t mind, it won’t take but a minute. William with the Ministers Association is on the phone. He wants to confirm you’re speaking on Friday, and if so, he needs the title of your speech for the program.”

  “You go ahead.” Mrs. Thatcher dabbed the corner of her eye with a tissue. “I could use a moment to collect myself.”

  Michael patted her shoulder and walked into the hall. Too bad his wife couldn’t be that generous. Where could she be? What would she do if her car broke down?

  Despite wearing high heels, Tara kept pace beside him. “While I have you, Dave Johnson needs to meet with you about the new building. He isn’t free during the day, so I suggested he stop by one night around five, as long as it doesn’t interfere with the funeral. Just let me know when and I’ll upload it to your calendar. Also, New Hope in Memphis wants to know if you’re willing to speak at their spring conference. I gave them a tentative no—your schedule is already full that month.”

  “Thanks, Tara.”

  “I’m glad to help.” She tucked her short, dark hair behind her ear. “Oh, and when you talk to Veronica, tell her we’ll need her to coordinate benevolence meals again. I called your house, but there was no answer. Don't worry, I took care of Mrs. Thatcher myself. Meals will be in place after the funeral.”

  Michael opened his office door. He couldn’t tell Veronica because she left. His secretary understood the congregations’ needs. Why couldn’t his wife?

 

  Steve

  Swollen eyes throbbed as Steve Ritterman watched a man in an olive military uniform open the metal door of a shipping container located at the far end of the internment camp. A blast of heat rippled from the interior along with a smell that rivaled an Amarillo cattle house roasting in the Texas sun. Steve reared back from the stench, but a hand smacked him between the shoulder blades, knocking him into the compound’s version of a jail cell.

  Pain exploded through his left collar bone and ribs as he tumbled onto a steel surface coated with something like twigs and leaves. And the smell. Oh, Lord, the smell. He swiped grime off his hand and cupped it around his nose.

  One of the captors yelled something in a language Steve had yet to learn, and the door slammed shut. Darkness, thick and blacker than a moonless night in the Texas desert enveloped him. He listened for noise, but minutes passed and the only audible sounds were those that leaked through the joints of the steel prison. At least he was alone.

  Thick sweat coated his skin. Clearing a spot on the floor with his bare feet—they’d taken his shoes—he pushed himself into a sitting position, aggravating tender spots on his back, arms, and chest, and possible fractures. Pulling his shirt up over his nose, he stared into the inky depths of the boxcar-style container, the type used to haul goods overseas on barges.

  His dad had warned him to keep his mouth shut. “Respect their religion like you want them to respect yours.” He couldn’t be silent, though, not when a man’s life and soul were at risk. He’d endured the injections and taken the long flights from Houston to help others in the name of Christ, so how could he not answer truthfully when asked why he exchanged “splendid America” for a village full of sick people?

  Steve rested his head on the container wall and laughed. In his report to Spence, he’d have to admit he thought the guy was dying. The local not only recovered, he’d told his brothers about Christ, and the group then asked Steve to teach them the Bible. They died, all of them, along with their families.

  Rejoice insofar as you share Christ’s sufferings

  Who would know better than the apostles? They’d suffered far worse and yet they rejoiced over God’s glory and love. He could do no less. Crossing his legs, Steve lifted his hands as far as his injured ribs would allow and sang a hymn.

 

  Veronica

  I spent two days driving along the Gulf Coast where Katrina’s wrath and later, the thick sludge of oil had made landfall. Those who lived through both catastrophes no doubt wondered why God had decided to pick on them. It took me a year to admit I wondered the same about my life, and another to bow before Him and say, “though you slay me, I will trust you.”

  Upon arrival in the garden that was Savannah, I checked into the hotel and went to bed in an effort to calm my stomach. Travel combined with restaurant food had aggravated what, two months prior, I’d discovered was morning sickness. Thanks to long hours spent ministering to his growing audience, Michael remained clueless. My mother had once encouraged me to break the news he’d longed to hear, but for our child’s sake, I had to get his attention first.

  On Friday morning, I put on a flowing yellow dress and straw hat, and boarded a horse-drawn carriage waiting outside my hotel. Alone, I toured the lush squares Michael had promised we would someday explore together. After dinner, I rode to Forsyth Park, a favorite it seemed, of both locals and tourists. I took pictures of the park’s elegant fountain, an old man sitting on a bench playing the clarinet, his gray hair curled so tight, he resembled a smoldering cigar, and couples strolling along the wide walkway under a canopy of lacy moss. Not to throw in Michael’s face when I returned, but to show our daughter when we talked about our first vacation together.

  “Would you like to buy a scarf?” a voice thick with southern asked. Sitting cross-legged beneath a sprawling oak tree, a teenage girl clutching a garment anchored to a pair of knitting needles raised a fuzzy ecru scarf. As if the purple streaks peeking from beneath her red beret and the gold loop attached to her lip couldn’t attract enough attention, she wore a pink tee shirt with GRITS blazed across the front and a pair of camouflage capris.

  I started to pass as I had other vendors clamoring to sell me tour tickets or straw roses, but the disappointment in her eyes slowed my pace. This was someone’s daughter. Someone who either didn’t know she was there, or who didn’t care.

  I stopped. “I live in Texas.”

  Her shoulders slumped, and she dropped the scarf atop an overstuffed backpack beside her. “I guess you don’t need one then. It’s probably the wrong time of year to make these things anyway.”

  My heart warmed. Would my own daughter talk to me in such comfortable tones? “You never know. What’s your name?”

  “Sarah.” She stuck out her hand.

  I shook it. “Hi, Sarah. Can you knit baby items? Hats, booties?”

  “Sure. That is, if you give me a day or two.” She twisted sideways and opened the backpack. “See any yarn you like?”

  I peeked at the skimpy selection of earth tones, bizarre yellows, and eggplants squished on top of clothes. Yarns she probably bought on sale.

  “No, but…” I unzipped my purse and pulled a twenty from my wallet. “I’d like something in pink. I’m willing to buy the yarn if you can get to the store.”

  “No prob. When do you need them?”

  I gave her a date and time, and we agreed to meet by the statue of John Wesley in Reynolds Square. I handed her the twenty. “Use the rest for gas or bus fare.”

  She bounced on her seat and smiled. “Thanks. See you Sunday.”

  I waved and took off down the sidewalk, but she stopped me with, “It’s getting late. You’re not going down there alone, are you?”

  No, not alone. For though God no doubt watched my journey with sorrow, He promised never to leave nor forsake me. Before I left Dallas, I’d promised Him the same, assuring Him I wasn’t a Jonah or a prodigal child running from my problems. I was running to them. Forcing Michael to help me understand how I fit into a ministry that had taken its eyes—my eyes—off the Sarahs and Shoe-Scam men of this world and onto the public success of its minister.

  And how my daughter and I would fit into Michael’s life once he became a star.


 

  Atlanta, Georgia

  Brent Westberg pressed his fingers against his temple and tightened his grip on the phone. “I realize that, sir, but our man—” More talk and excuses filled the line, and for the third time in forty minutes, the fifth person he’d reached at the State Department put him on hold.

  “No!” He pitched the phone across the room, shattering the mobile device on the glass partition. When did this country become tolerant of everything but Christianity? The bunch up in Washington would have kicked the founding fathers out of office for even suggesting the First Amendment.

  He fell back in his seat and steadied himself. Without looking at his reflection, he knew his face was flushed. If Steph saw him, she would have the heart attack he felt he was having.

  In the crowded office beyond the glass wall, Collin Tate, the head of Development, glanced up from his computer and stood. After snagging an orange from the small station the team laughingly called the break room, he strolled into Brent’s office and tossed the fruit across the desk. “I take it they still won’t cooperate.”

  “Of course not. I should have lied and told them Ritterman was a rock star. They would have sprung him days ago.” Brent dug his thumb into the fruit’s navel. Tangy juice spurted into the air. “I don’t get it. Even if they despise the man’s beliefs, he’s still an American. Doesn’t that afford him some rights? According to our government, no. They just keep feeding me the line that he’d been warned not to proselytize the locals. The man saved lives. You would think they would call him a hero.”

  Collin sat in the straight-back chair on the opposite side of the desk. “I still say we should contact Michael Sayers.”

  “I’m not going to beg some hotshot TV evangelist for help. He’d probably charge us a thousand bucks just to talk to him.”

  “He may be a hotshot, but he’s not a panhandler, and it’s radio, not TV. His show just went national. He preaches the Gospel, boss, complete with sin and hell and God’s amazing grace.”

  Brent eyed the younger man. “You mean the same unpopular message that got Ritterman arrested?”

  Collin shrugged. “People love him. He’s yet to ask for a dime, and more important, he’s from Texas. If nothing else, maybe he can stir up publicity in Dallas. That may get the government’s attention.”

  Brent munched on the fruit, the juice providing some measure of relief. He’d badgered numerous agencies and embassies every day since getting the call, and so far, no one had offered hope or help. Maybe the latest hotshot was what they needed. A hero on this side of the border, since the other one was getting ignored.

  He ripped off another slice of fruit. “Call his people. At this point, we’ve got nothing to lose.”

 

  Michael

  Six thirty. Michael dropped into his desk chair and raked his fingers over his scalp. So what if he messed up his hair? Everyone had gone home to their families. Everyone but him.

  He reached across the desk and skimmed his thumb over the photo of Veronica, smiling and happy after their wedding. Five days and still no word from her despite his calls and text messages. What could he have possibly done to tick her off that badly? In six years of marriage, they’d never gone to bed angry, much less walked out on one another. Yes, he had worked days promised to her. A lot of them. That was the nature of the ministry. They had to make sacrifices. How could she not know he missed her as much as she should be missing him?

  He pressed his fingertip against the image of her lips. “Tell me what happened, baby.”

  “Knock, knock. Am I interrupting?”

  Michael sat back and waved his secretary into the room. “Come in. I thought you’d left a half hour ago.”

  Still in the dress and heels she’d worn that day, Tara walked in carrying a foil-covered plate. “I did, but I figured since Veronica was out of town on family business, you would be craving a home-cooked meal by now.” She set the stoneware plate on the desk beside the keyboard. “I hope you like chicken parmesan.”

  Michael removed the foil, and the heavenly smell of garlic and marinara drifted up. At the sight of a breaded chicken breast lying beside a mound of sauce-covered noodles, a rumble erupted from his stomach.

  Tara smiled and handed him utensils. “I warmed it up in the kitchen, so dig in. How did the speech go this afternoon?”

  Michael lowered his head and thanked the Lord for the unexpected meal. A blessing after a week of his own bumbled efforts in the kitchen.

  Vinyl skritched as Tara sat on the couch across the room. Michael sliced the chicken into cubes. “Considering the time I spent on the funeral this week, it went—” He glanced up and the words stuck in his throat at the sight of his secretary lounging on the couch, her feet bare, legs curled beside her, fiddling with a silver earring. The skin beneath his collar warmed. He’d expected women to hit on him at the law firm—and several had given it a shot—but not at church. His church. How could a Christian…

  Veronica. The knife slipped through his fingers and clattered on the plate as he thought back to the days before she left. She’d pouted, spent time looking through sales flyers, and sighed more times than he could count, but there were no calls. No excess time spent on the laptop or shutting down email or Facebook when he walked into the room. No indication she was chatting with another person.

  While he was at home. As she loved to point out, he spent more time away from the house than he did in it. How did she spend her time when he was gone?

  “Michael?” Tara tilted her head. Layers of dark hair shifted, framing the heart-shaped face he once thought sweet, but was now the only vile clue he needed to explain his wife’s disappearance. Veronica had left the laptop behind. Maybe that held some answers.

  He pushed back the chair, and Tara smiled. When he reached the corner of the desk, the doorknob clicked and turned. The door opened, and the tall frame of Dave Johnson, his head deacon, filled the gap.

  This week just kept getting better. “Dave. I was just…” Michael glanced at Tara, who slipped her bare feet to the floor. He hitched his thumb toward the hall. “Leaving.”

  Dave smiled. “A wise choice, but I'll have to ask you to stay.” He stepped aside and held the door open. “Mrs. Monahan, if you’ll excuse us.”

  Tara finally had the decency to blush. She stood, picked up her shoes, and slipped through the doorway. When the door shut behind her, Michael swiped his hand across his mouth. “Dave, I promise I did not invite that.”

  Dave strolled to the desk and picked up the plate of food. “Your disheveled hair suggests otherwise, but a full serving of Tara’s chicken parmesan, partially cut, supports your claim. No man with a stomach rumbling as loud as yours would abandon this without cause.” He handed the plate to Michael. “She brought this to our house when Emily had surgery. It’s good. Eat.”

  Michael took the plate, but the soggy noodles had lost their appeal. He dropped it on the desk, cracking something, and fell into his chair. How could his life fall apart so fast?

  Dave took Tara’s place on the couch and stretched his legs forward. “I came by to run you over to the property I mentioned earlier this week, but it looks as if we have other business to discuss.” He crossed one ankle over the other. “So let’s discuss.”

  What could he say? Admit he discovered he was having marital problems? That his wife may have left him but he wasn’t sure?

  “Wisdom is with aged men.” Dave pointed to his graying hair. “Since I, unfortunately, qualify, talk to me. And don’t make me quote verses on pride. For some reason, I can’t remember those. When is Veronica coming home?”

  Pride tried to seal Michael’s mouth, but since he’d recently completed a series on the subject, Dave had him in a vise. Using the fork to pick at a noodle, Michael spilled his guts. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know where she is or how to contact her.”

  Dave stood, and despite having learned his pastor could run a church but not his marriage, he gave
a heartwarming smile. “They have a way of keeping us in line, don’t they? She’ll call. If not today, then soon. I’ll have Emily check on her. Until then, you’ll stay at our place.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll be fine.”

  “The sharks smell blood, my boy, and they’re circling. You’re not only a pastor, you’re a pastor in the public eye. For your protection…” He lowered his head and looked at Michael as if peeking over a pair of glasses. “And for the integrity of this church, you’ll stay with us, and you won’t be alone until Veronica returns.”

  If Veronica returned. Michael nodded and pushed himself out of his chair.

  Dave headed toward the hall. “On another subject, I received a call from Brent Westberg, the director of Luke’s Hand International. One of his relief workers was arrested for proselytizing. The State Department claims they’re on it, but they’re taking an ‘I told you so’ attitude. It’s a Texas boy, so Westberg asked if you would be willing to use what influence and resources you have to pressure these guys.”

  Michael flicked the wall switch, dousing the office light, and fell into step beside Dave. Finally, a problem he could solve. Given to him because the influence, means, and know how had been given to him to do so. Why couldn’t his wife understand that? “I’d be happy to. Ask Westberg if he’s available for a phone interview on Tuesday. I still have some connections at the state capital. Maybe we can interview the governor as well. We’ll also put in a call to the State Department, and I’ll post a video appeal on the website and any other social media Tara has set up. I’m sure we can coax this thing into going viral.”

  And maybe Veronica would see it and understand why his ministry was so important.