

Cover design by OBT Graphix

Ordained Irreverence

McMillian Moody

Copyright © McMillian Moody 2012

Published by OBT Bookz

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher. Though this is a work of fiction, many of the stories and anecdotes included were inspired by actual events that happened in the life of the author and those he worked with during his years in full time church ministry.

### DEDICATION

This book is for all the church staff members who work tirelessly and unheralded behind the scenes enabling churches to effectively meet the needs of the flock. Yours is a noble calling.

### ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To my wonderful wife Diane who daily gives a part of her life to so many others, but always saves the best part for me. This books stands as a tribute not only to your top-shelf editing skills, but also to your tenacity and unlimited gift of encouragement.

A special thanks to Glenn Hale and Sally Wilson for their help and suggestions.

And to the Potter. Continue to mold and squeeze and shape

and smooth and fashion this vessel for Your use.

There are episodes in life that help define who we become. A special relationship, a death in the family, a financial windfall, a battlefield experience, a mission trip, etc. This is a story about one such episode.

Six months that changed my life forever.

— _Elmo Jenkins_

### The Epiphany

As one of the 457 ministerial wannabes suffering through the righteous rigors at Harvest Morgan Seminary, I had not distinguished myself as an academician or a theologian. Not even close. There, amongst the budding Billy Grahams, Martin Luthers, and Mother Teresas, I trudged daily, basically void of inspiration. It was all Greek to me. Literally. The tedious, arcane, and often inane required regimen of my religious studies had systematically whittled away the honest desire that had once inspired me to pursue a life of ministry. My fellow seminarians seemed to thrive, either storming the mission fields of the world, bringing down the heavens with their glorious singing voices, or filling the pulpits of churches around the globe with profound, life-changing rhetoric.

Me? I was tone deaf, possessed marginal oratorical skills, and refrained from even _mentioning_ the word "missionary" for fear God would make me one. So what was I to do with my burning desire to serve God? Finishing the last semester of my class work, I needed only to complete an internship of some sort to finalize my seminary degree. But then what?

My epiphany happened on a most unusual day. I'd tenaciously pursued one of my female classmates in hopes of getting a date. The evasive Dolly had demurred on numerous occasions, but in a weak moment (no doubt the result of sleep deprivation; it was, after all, finals week), Dolly said yes—but only on _her_ terms. Terms which I found constricted at best. Yet by accepting her conditions, I reasoned, I could surely parlay this limited event into a more meaningful opportunity in the future.

Her plan? We would attend her aunt and uncle's annual Spring Open House. The family expected her to bring a date, and as she reminded me, I was available and obviously willing. However, she neglected to share with me two important facts. One, she failed to mention that Aunt Geneva and Uncle Smitty were, in fact, the Fitzsimonses—by far the wealthiest family in this part of the state. Old money. _Real_ old money. Second, Dolly also forgot to warn me that this might well be the stuffiest, most excruciating two hours of my young life.

We arrived fashionably late. _Quite a handsome couple_ , I thought to myself. Within seconds, I realized we were the youngest attendees by at least thirty years. After introducing me to our hosts, Dolly excused herself—never to return. She had abandoned me! I felt like tearing my jacket and yelling out UNCLEAN! I figured the heartless shrew had arranged to have an escape vehicle warmed up and waiting at the rear door.

Fortunately, all was not lost. Numerous tables of free food were waiting to be plundered. "Which way to the buffet?" I asked a thin waiter with a pencil mustache.

So there I was, pondering my shrunken self-esteem, entombed in a mansion full of crusty old rich people. After pilfering my way through the shrimp tray and mentally comparing the small crustaceans to my measly existence, I noticed another non-geezer in the room. With natural dark hair, he appeared to be in his mid-forties. He looked as out of place as I felt, so I approached him and introduced myself.

"Hello," I said, extending my hand. "It's nice to find someone else at this _shindig_ who's not on oxygen or sporting glaucoma glasses. My name is Ellington." I paused then added, "Ellington Jenkins," to keep it formal. Who knew? He might be somebody important.

He shook my hand and studied me for a moment before a broad smile warmed his face. "Yes, this annual get-together tends to skew toward the geriatric. Nice to meet you, Ellington. I'm Tom Applebee."

Turns out Tom was the Associate Pastor at First Church, the largest and most respected church in our entire city. We hit it off immediately. Together, we suffered through Geneva's stuffy reading of an original poem entitled _Ode to a Gilded Debutante._ The torture continued through a painful trilogy of songs by some has-been Irish tenor. When we could endure no more, we escaped outside to the quiet of the poolside cabana where I explained my background and seminary experience at Tom's request.

Later, as Tom and I made a stop at the dessert table, he told me about a six-month internship program at First Church. And then it happened. He casually asked, "Think you'd be interested?"

For the briefest of moments, time stood still. There, flanked by caramel flan and raspberry sorbet, my future illuminated right before my eyes. Like Michelangelo's painting on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, God reached down His finger and touched my life. Like Peter on the Mount of Transfiguration, I knew something mighty powerful had just happened, but I was still in a fog.

"Ellington?"

I blinked, jarred back to reality, my divine moment-of-destiny vision receding back into my subconscious. Taking an anxious gulp of sparkling water, I found my voice. "Yes, Mr. Applebee. I would love to apply for your internship."

I survived the party, applied for the First Church internship, and God made good on my epiphany. I got the job! The doorway to all my tomorrows opened wide. At long last, I had found purpose and focus, and my stature at the good ol' seminary soared like an eagle. I was more than ready for this new challenge.

As for Dolly, I'm sure she's still wonderin' who let the air out of her car tires.

My bad.

### The New Rules

Cue the balloons. My fifteen minutes of fame had arrived. My genesis. My new beginning, if you will. Relentless self-promotion and uncanny dumb luck, along with a dash of divine intervention, had conspired to provide me this golden opportunity. It was my time. I was ready to live the dream!

I lingered in my car, securely parked in the staff lot, staring across the street at my Mecca.

First Church.

Forbidding yet graceful, her Frank Lloyd Wright-inspired facade formed a face that appeared to be smiling down on me.

Not Second Church. Not Main Street Church. Not even the ubiquitous Whispering Creek Community Church. No, this was First Church. The Pope of all churches. I sat there momentarily awestruck, reminding myself to breathe. I felt a bit overwhelmed. In silence, I savored each detail, my mind adrift, remembering just how I had arrived at this life-changing moment.

The mid-morning sun ricocheted off the First Church steeple and darted across my face, awakening me from my musings. I tossed my parking pass on the dash of my modest but efficient Nissan Sentra, and checked to make sure my tie was straight. Grabbing my valise, I headed for the entrance to the church office. While waiting for a chance to cross First Boulevard, I began taking deep breaths in a vain attempt to calm my nerves.

A hearse was parked in front of the church ahead of several long black limousines. _No doubt c_ ars queued up for a drive to the cemetery. _Man, I hate funerals_.

Jogging across the street, I spotted Dr. Horace Jorgensen sitting in the front passenger seat of the hearse. The renowned, beloved Senior Pastor of First Church—a living icon, a man known all around the world for his profound and articulate preaching, friend to the presidents and confidant of the high and mighty—sat a mere ten yards away from me.

Suddenly, he pitched forward, his eyes wide, his mouth gaping as if struggling for air. Concerned, I glanced at the driver. He didn't appear alarmed. In fact, he was smirking. For a brief, irrational moment, I panicked. _My God, he's choking!_ I quickened my pace toward the vehicle. _I must rescue this great man of the faith!_ _Who knows but that God put me in this moment for such a time as this?_

Fortunately, I paused long enough to come to my senses. I took a second more careful look. Dr. Jorgensen _wasn't_ dying. He was laughing. No, scratch that. He was _guffawing,_ his signature red hair clearly visible through the tinted windshield. With tears in his eyes, he was enjoying the laugh of a lifetime.

_How odd,_ I thought. He'd obviously just performed some dead soul's funeral service. The corpse in its casket rested less than three feet behind him. Yet there he was, busting a gut laughing? I would later learn that the hearse driver had shared a hilarious story with Dr. Jorgensen, and though it was coarse and very inappropriate, the pastor found it "quite humorous."

At seminary, we were taught that in order to survive on a church staff, you have to develop the ability to separate yourself from the pain and suffering of those you minister to. You must be sympathetic and helpful to your church members during times of sickness or loss, but you must also be able to emotionally disengage when the task was completed.

As I neared the hearse, the passenger window slowly lowered. "Good morning, Mr. Jenkins," he said with an oversized smile as he shook my hand. "I understand this is your first official day with us."

"Dr. Jorgensen." I responded as though startled, pretending I hadn't been staring at him. And since I had yet to be briefed on the proper staff protocol, I simply added, "Good morning to you, sir." I stood there smiling for a long awkward moment, not knowing what to do next. Here was the Grand Poobah of my new vocational life, and I was sinking like the Titanic.

The seasoned veteran took pity and rescued me. "So Jenkins, are you ready for your first day here at Crisis Central?" He smiled again.

Since he'd brought it up twice, I knew I'd better respond to his query. "Well, to be honest, sir, I'm a bit nervous."

"Nervous?" he shot back, a befuddled expression creasing his face.

Damn! First day, first conversation, and I've already screwed up.

"Nervous?" he repeated. "There's no time to be nervous around here. Gird your loins, son, and go get after it." And with a chuckle, he waved goodbye as the hearse pulled away.

The funeral procession sped off leaving me there to ponder my first two lessons.

Rule #1: Avoid total candor when conversing with other staff members.

Rule #2: Never think or say the word "damn" again.

I gathered myself, took a deep breath and headed for the main entrance. As I approached the steps, I took one more quick glance at the church's magnificent art deco design and promptly missed the first step, slamming my right shin into the concrete edge, and immediately broke new Rule #2.

### The Closet

Cooling my heels in the guest area of the church office, I daydreamed about my new life on the staff of First Church. Popular folklore at the seminary embraced the notion that staff members at First Church were treated like royalty. Plush offices, personal assistants, and memberships at private country clubs and restaurants around town. I'd always questioned the veracity of those rumors, but the truth would now be found in the tasting.

Steeped in a rich heritage, legendary First Church had played a prominent role in the life of our city for over 150 years. The current building, over 100 years old, had been the tallest structure in town for many of those years with a steeple reaching twelve stories into the sky. Since its beginning, only five senior pastors had filled its pulpit, each lasting at least a quarter of a century. These men not only pastored First Church, they also sat on the boards of numerous local banks and foundations. They also contributed regularly to the daily newspapers, and socialized with the wealthy and powerful members of the community. These interactions brought many of the same rich and famous people through the doors of First Church—politicians, professional athletes, doctors and lawyers. Some even became members of the church.

"Mr. Jenkins."

Jarred from my daydream, I turned my attention back to the receptionist.

"Mr. Jenkins, Pastor Applebee will see you now." According to the nameplate on her desk, her name was Juliann. She was _gorgeous._ Someone must have theorized that a beauty queen at the front desk would create a good first impression. Worked for me.

I got up, collected myself and approached the door to the inner office area. As I reached for the door handle a loud buzzer sounded off. I jumped back, embarrassing myself.

Juliann giggled and winked at me. "I was just unlocking the door for you, silly."

I forced a smile. "Thanks," I mumbled. Two quick steps and I was in. I paused to bask in the moment as the door gently closed behind me. _I've arrived. I'm standing in the inner sanctum. Not the Holy of Holies, but close._

Tom Applebee rounded a corner and shook my hand. "Welcome to the staff of First Church, Ellington," he said with a big grin.

"Please, just call me Elmo."

"Elmo?"

"My full name is Ellington Montgomery Jenkins," I explained. "But I've been called Elmo as long as I can remember. And please—no Sesame Street jokes."

He smiled. "Then Elmo Jenkins it is. Let me introduce you to the First Church team. You met our receptionist Juliann. And this first office here belongs to our administrator, Bob 'Big Bird' Stevens."

And so it began.

Tom had to attend a meeting, so after the tour he left me to chill in his office. _Very impressive._ As second-in-command at First Church, he warranted a corner office on the top floor of the Church Administration building. Huge panoramic windows formed two sides of the room providing a spectacular view of downtown from five floors up, high above the intersection of First Boulevard and Main Street.

On my tour, I learned that the fifth floor consisted of only four rooms. The two private office suites belonging to Tom and Dr. Jorgensen, each fronted with separate built-in areas for their executive assistants and visiting guests. The Executive Boardroom, or EBR, and Deacons Lounge occupied the rest of the floor. Perhaps one of the most important rooms in the entire city, decisions made within the EBR over the years had helped shape not only the future of the church, but the direction of the town as well.

Few church members ever stepped foot inside the EBR. A magnificent table made from one continuous piece of solid oak dominated the long, narrow room. Twenty leather chairs surrounded the table, with an additional ring of chairs lining the perimeter along the walls. These outer chairs could accommodate another thirty to forty folks. At capacity, the room could handle at least sixty people.

Tom had told me the deacons met here, filling most every chair. _The old "strength in numbers" game,_ I thought. _I bet that's intimidating for the poor staff member who gets called in._ At one end of the room, a door led directly into Dr. Jorgensen's office. On the other end, another door opened into the adjoining Deacons Lounge.

There were no other doors. I asked Tom how they got around the fire code with no doors into the hall. He had laughed. "Every Fire Chief for the last hundred years has been a deacon of First Church. Fire codes have never been a problem."

The Deacons Lounge resembled a stuffy English gentlemen's club. _As if I would know?_ My station in life had never afforded me access to anything like it. High-back leather armchairs, a working fireplace, dark wood paneling . . . even a bar, though I hadn't seen any liquor. In my mind's eye, I envisioned years of back slapping, hand shaking, murmured whispering, and of course, plenty of pontificating.

For some reason the Sanhedrin came to mind.

As I waited for Tom's return, I perused the art and artifacts of his office. A plaque on the wall revealed he'd graduated Summa Cum Laude from Slippery Rock University. _Quite humorous considering his line of work,_ I chuckled. From his collection of books I could tell he must be quite bright, though I doubted he'd actually read many of them. I even flirted with the idea of asking him a question from Thomas Aquinas's _Commentary on Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics._ But then I remembered my father's sage wisdom. Dad always said, "Never embarrass the man who signs your paycheck." Tom wouldn't be signing my paychecks, but I figured Dad's wise axiom still applied.

When Tom finally returned, he finished briefing me on the particulars of my job. Basically, I would shadow him for the first several weeks, and he would be my supervisor for the entire six months. I would attend all staff meetings, pertinent committee meetings, and just _maybe_ a deacons meeting or two. Since I was already a licensed minister, I would be assigned a sampling of all staff responsibilities, including hospital visitation, funerals, baptisms, weddings, and such.

Finally, he said the words I'd longed to hear all day: "Let me take you down to your office."

I forcefully repressed any show of emotion, but inside I was giddy. I'd never had my own office before. Even the secretaries at First Church had great offices with fancy wood trim and custom-built desks. I knew mine wouldn't be on the fifth floor. Perhaps the fourth floor? Would my window look out on downtown or perhaps back toward the picturesque west horizon? I briefly closed my eyes and imagined a stunning sunset outside my window. We got on the executive elevator, and my ebullient spirit quickly dampened as Tom pushed the second floor button. I fought to regroup. _Well, at least it's not on the first floor._ We exited the elevator and began a series of turns, first walking past the print shop, then the music library and the nurse's station. _Where are the staff offices?_ I wondered. Finally, we passed an office. I read the nameplate as we walked by:

Rev. Fred Snooker

Interim Senior Adult Pastor

M-W-F (mornings only)

_Snooker. Unfortunate name for a pastor,_ I thought. Two more turns and we came to a dead end. To our left, was a solid metal door badly in need of a fresh coat of paint. The sign on the door read: Utilities/Miscellaneous Closet.

Tom turned to me and without a trace of apology in his voice, said, "This will be your office. We haven't assigned office space to any previous interns, but since you'll be performing ministerial duties, I pulled some strings and got you your own place."

He then smiled at me. That special smile. You know, the one that quietly says, _I like you, but the fact is you're a punk, and you have to start at the bottom just like the rest of us did._

He pushed open the door and there it was—my very own _Deluxe Utility Closet._ Deluxe, meaning they supplied it with a six-foot banquet table and one metal folding chair.

And my window? It looked out on a panoramic view, all right.

A panoramic view of the church dumpster.

### The Horses Rearing

My first week on staff at First Church had gone pretty well. I was systematically getting to know each member of the large staff. Thanks to my nickname, I had to suffer through the obligatory onslaught of Muppet jokes. Nothing new, of course, but when I met Tom Applebee's secretary, I knew the ribbing would proliferate dramatically. Her name? Adrianne Figghie. Yes, that's _Figghie_ which rhymes with _Piggy._ As luck would have it, _Miss Figghie_ was both single and quite "rotund," if you will. To exacerbate the problem even more, in the right lighting, she bore a slight resemblance to the famed Muppet heroine. I felt awful as she became collateral damage to my humiliation, but what could I do? To her credit, she seemed nonplussed by the relentless wisecracks.

Wednesday morning arrived, and we all gathered for the weekly staff meeting in the first floor boardroom— _not_ to be confused with the sacred fifth floor Executive boardroom. A generous supply of donuts, Danish, and coffee covered a table in the far corner. People trickled in, slowly filling the room. I stood next to the coffee pot enjoying a glazed donut and chatting with Adrianne about my list of assignments for the day. I looked up as Thurman Wilson, the youth pastor, casually slipped in from the hall. I knew Thurm from seminary, though he'd graduated a couple years before me.

Thurm spotted me across the room and in his best Cookie Monster voice hollered, "Hey Elmo, could you get Miss Figghie to toss me a cooookkkieeeeeee?"

The room exploded in laughter. I felt my face heat with embarrassment. I turned to apologize to Adrianne, only to discover she had mysteriously slipped away. I started to fire back a witty quip about God's vengeance, when I noticed everyone shuffling to find a seat as Dr. Jorgensen strode through the door. I marveled at the subtle shift in demeanor, from comfortable camaraderie to nervous respect inspired by his commanding presence.

Dr. Jorgensen took his seat at the head of the boardroom table. I quickly discerned the existence of an unspoken delineation by which the staff members seated themselves. Like some type of subliminal pecking order. Apparently, the twelve seats around the table had fixed assignments, whereas the others seem to be filled at random. My best guess? Seniority rules. The longer you've been on staff, the closer you sit to Dr. Jorgensen. I could only imagine how awkward it must be when someone retired or got fired. Did everyone just move over one seat, like some kind of pharisaical musical chairs or fruit basket turnover? As I dawdled on that thought, I yawned but quickly closed my mouth. _It's your first staff meeting. Stop looking like a schmuck!_

As second-in-command, Tom Applebee took the seat directly to Dr. Jorgensen's right. Fran Bruker, the pastor's long-time secretary, occupied the seat to Dr. Jorgensen's left. I estimated Mrs. Bruker, a widow, to be somewhere in her late seventies. I'd been told her husband died decades earlier, soon after their wedding day and under questionable circumstances. Though she was never implicated in his passing, his suspicious death raised many questions which were never resolved. They had no children, and she never remarried. Quietly living out her life, Mrs. Bruker had served as secretary to the last two senior pastors of First Church.

I have a bad habit of thinking everyone looks like somebody else. I drive my family and friends crazy making these comparisons. Fran Bruker reminded me of Cloris Leachman's character _Frau Blucher_ in the movie _Young Frankenstein—_ small but stern, with harsh facial features and bad teeth. In the movie, every time someone said the name _Frau Blucher,_ you'd hear the nervous whinny of horses rearing off in the distance. Moderately funny in the movie, now it was hysterical.

A couple of days earlier, I'd mentioned this _Frau Blucher_ observation to Thurm. We had a good laugh over it, cracking an endless run of jokes along those lines. In hind site? _Bad_ mistake. Now, when Fran Bruker's name was announced to read the minutes, I made eye contact with Thurm and the horses reared. I had to call upon every ounce of sheer willpower just to keep from bursting into laughter. Thurm's eyes watered, and I almost wet my pants. Like village idiots, we had opened a Pandora's Box.

As Fran droned on reading the minutes, I began studying the different people sitting at the table. Tom had given me a thorough run-down on each staff person. Harry Simpkins, the minister of music, sat at Tom's right. Tom told me Harry was a piece of work, describing him as a cross between a vaudeville entertainer and professional hockey player. It's widely held that music ministers at large churches tend to be aloof, arrogant, and on occasion, a tad bit prissy. Not Harry. He had a big heart and even bigger personality, but often lacked common sense. Passionate to a fault and not known for being graceful or diplomatic, Harry was indeed quite the character.

Over the years, Harry's crazy escapades had become legendary. Tom told me about the time Harry and the youth pastor _de jour_ chaperoned a canoeing trip. While loading the teens back on the bus after a meal break, Harry and the youth pastor got into a heated logistics argument that quickly escalated out of control. Fascinated, the kids watched from the bus as their two leaders engaged in a sanctified fist fight. Two godly men rolling in the dirt with their ordained irreverence on full display.

The poor youth pastor returned to find his office empty and a moving van in front of his home. The beloved Harry survived the incident with a reprimand from the deacons and a few hours of First Church's consecrated brand of community service.

Next to Harry sat Fred Snooker, associate pastor emeritus and now part-time minister for senior adults. Before Dr. Jorgensen arrived, Fred had served as associate to the previous senior pastor, the infamous Dr. Buster Sapp. The onset of dementia had forced Dr. Sapp to retire in his later years. No one knew a problem existed until they discovered Dr. Sapp had been dressing up as an elderly woman and attending the Ladies Missionary Society meetings. The ladies even voted him president-elect of their prestigious women's group before the charade was uncovered. An awkward moment in the otherwise illustrious narrative of First Church.

After the Buster debacle, Fred Snooker stepped boldly into the gap serving as interim pastor while the church searched for a successor. Assuming he would be the next senior pastor, Fred faced bitter disappointment when the church hired Jorgensen instead. A good and decent man, Fred humbly accepted the outcome and stayed on as associate pastor until retiring several years ago. Fred recently rejoined the staff in an interim position replacing senior adult pastor Hugo Withers. The elderly Withers had died of natural causes. A colleague found him at his desk, face down in his taco salad.

Looking back across the table, I studied Bob Stevens, the church business manager seated to the left of Fran Bruker. Bob looked like a typical accountant, small in stature, thinning hair, and beady eyes behind black-framed glasses. He seemed nervous to me, like Al Capone's personal accountant must have looked. The annual budget of First Church totaled $11 million, mostly funded through tithes and offerings and special gifts from the town's well-heeled. The church kept another $1 million tucked safely away to be used for more parking spaces should adjacent land ever become available. Forget missions. These folks wanted to park close to the building. Bob Stevens managed all of it. According to Tom, Bob was a man of rigid personal habits. He even took his two-week vacation at the exact same time every summer and always to the exact same location in the Cayman Islands. _An interesting getaway spot for the church bookkeeper._

Louis Estrada sat next to Bob. To be honest, I found the tall, dark singles pastor to be rather odd looking. Like maybe he'd spent a little too long in the birth canal. But it takes a special set of gifts to be a minister to singles, and Louis clearly possessed them. First Church enjoyed a wildly successful singles ministry thanks to the impressive program designed under his leadership. As Fran read off the calendar of events for the next several weeks, at least half the entries involved singles activities. Being young and single myself, I carefully noted those that related to my age group. I'd visited First Church in the past, keenly aware of the large pool of single righteous babes in attendance. Hopefully, my new status as a staff member would improve my chances with the ladies. To be honest, I needed all the help I could get.

As Fran finished going over the calendar, I hurried to wrap up my observations of the staff members at the table. Ramona Holloway served as music associate. An attractive woman with scary eyes, she was single and probably so for the long haul. Next to Ramona sat matronly Doreen McGinty, the children's director. Doreen had an unusually soft voice. Almost a whisper, which I presumed came from years and years of yelling, "Stop that this minute!" Next, Raze Hankins the minister to married adults, and Terry Hankins the college and career pastor. I was betting they were related. Rounding out the table, Bernard Coggins served as head of pastoral care. Bernard played clean-up batter, covering all those tasks the other pastors didn't like to bother with—bereavement visits, counseling, the benevolence ministry, etc.

The second echelon of staff members sat in padded folding chairs around the perimeter of the room. These included the building superintendent, food service manager, preschool director, Thurm the youth pastor, Johnny Rochelle the recreation director, the thrift shop director, and a whole brood of secretaries. _There are more people attending this staff meeting than the Sunday morning attendance of about 75 percent of the churches in America,_ I thought. _I'm not sure that an $11 million budget is enough._

When Fran finished, we took a short break. All the secretaries, assistants, and directors were excused, leaving only the upper-level staff in the room. I grabbed my Daytimer and started to leave with the other underlings.

"Jenkins."

I recognized Dr. Jorgensen's voice over my shoulder. As one of his defining characteristics, Dr. Jorgensen addressed everyone by their last name, men and women alike. I turned as the pastor emerged from the hubbub of expensive suits and walked toward me.

"Jenkins," he said again, "just a moment. I'm going to break protocol and have you stay for the rest of the meeting. I've discerned that you're an idea guy. And to be honest, this group of . . ." He paused, subtly scanning the remaining staff members mingling around the room. "A collective . . ." He leaned in, lowering his voice. "Well, let's just call them a collective _brain cramp._ They could use some new, fresh ideas."

_Did he just say what I think he said? Did he ask me to stay?_ I checked the room. _Did anyone else hear this?_ _Surely someone had just witnessed the most significant moment of my young ministerial career._ No such luck. Still stunned, I didn't know what to say. "Uh, sure . . . well, uh . . . why, thank you, sir."

"Just grab an empty chair at the table and feel free to jump right in on the discussions. I'll let everyone know you're here on my invitation as an active participant. Fair enough?"

"Sure. Absolutely." I took a seat.

The door closed, and Dr. Jorgensen led a quick prayer for wisdom, discernment, and brevity. I got the distinct feeling he had a tee-time and didn't want to be late for it. Tom Applebee passed out copies of the agenda. Concise and to the point, the list included just four words or names:

July 7th Agenda:

Strickland

Harvey

Debt

Festival

Whoa. What's with the cryptic agenda? I better start praying for some of that wisdom and discernment.

BOOM! Tom Applebee jumped right in. "We have a vacancy on our Finance Committee. The nominating committee suggested Ansel Strickland, and he's willing to serve. If we approve him, he's in. Comments?"

"Strickland's background check came back clean," Bob Stevens began. "He's been married twice, but his first wife won't be a problem. She remarried and lives in another state. Their children are all adults now. All successful citizens. He has no children with Betty, his second wife. Betty is a faithful volunteer in our church media library. Strickland has worked middle management for Morgenstern-Kimble for twenty-seven years with excellent marks on his annual evaluations. He's bright and stable."

"Any hobbies?" Harry Simpkins asked.

"He's a collector of sorts," Bob responded. "Vintage civil war firearms, old clocks, antique toys. That sort of thing."

"That stuff can get pricey. How does he pay for it?" Harry pressed.

"He makes one twenty-three five annually at Morgenstern-Kimble," Bob continued, "and Betty knocks down another twenty grand as a part-time legal assistant. He appears to manage his money well and has little or no credit card debit."

I fought to keep my composure. I couldn't believe the copious nature of what I was hearing. Weren't we simply discussing the qualifications of a potential volunteer church committee member? It sounded more like the vetting process for a Supreme Court justice.

"Is he a tither?" Fred Snooker asked.

_Now there's a reasonable question_ , I thought.

"Last year, he gave 13.6 percent of his total gross income including benefits to the church," Bob answered. "Another two thousand to other charitable activities in the community."

My head began to swim. I struggled to look attentive, but the intense scrutiny boggled my brain. A sickening thought came to mind. What on earth had they discussed about _me_ before I was hired?

Louis Estrada joined the inquisition. "What about his health?"

"It's all good. Very good," Bob stated. "He's a runner. Low cholesterol. Good family history."

I wondered if they'd checked his teeth like prospective buyers of a racing horse. How did they get all this information on the poor guy? I half expected someone to produce his tax returns or latest urine sample.

Out of nowhere, Dr. Jorgensen asked, "Jenkins, what do you think?"

Startled by his question, I made a concerted effort to look contemplative. _How do I play this game? Do I ask something about his views on stewardship?_ But then a strange confidence came over me. The finger of God was at work again. His greater purposes for my life were at play, and I felt compelled to go with the movement in my spirit. I paused, then slowly panned the table looking at the faces of people I hardy knew. I turned to Dr. Jorgensen and asked, "What about his faith? We've discussed his good work ethic, his strong exercise regimen, his apparent honesty and integrity. Have these strengths been forged through sheer human will, or are they fruits of a life built upon a sincere faith in God?"

I could only imagine the thoughts floating around the table.

Kid, you are so naïve.

You don't have a clue what you're talking about.

Why are you in here anyway?

After a long pause, Dr. Jorgensen said, "Insightful question, Jenkins. This is one of our most important committees. We need men of strong faith for our leaders. I believe Mr. Strickland to be such a man, but too often we take these things for granted."

Several of the other staff members confirmed Ansel Strickland to be a godly man, then we moved on. I kept my mouth shut for the rest of the meeting. But I did notice a subtle change in the attitude and demeanor of the staff as they discussed the other items on the agenda. When the meeting ended, we stood to leave. Dr. Jorgensen gently patted me on the back without a word. When I turned to acknowledge him, he winked at me with a smile, his way of saying _well done._

### The Homemade Pie

I splurged. On my own dime, I had a nameplate made for my office/closet door. With a little effort, I chiseled off the old _Utilities/Miscellaneous_ sign and mounted mine in its place. The nameplate was gold with black letters: _Elmo Jenkins – Staff Intern._ I had to admit it was beautiful. Immediately I felt more significant. Someone important once said, "It's the small things that count." With my minuscule intern's salary, the small things were the _only_ things that counted. Stepping back into the hall admiring my new nameplate, I had a thought. S _ince they assigned me this rat hole for an office, I'm going to do the best I can to make it special. I'll show 'em some creativity!_

To help kick off my renovation program, I enlisted Dunston Jones. Dunston was an old black janitor who had been on the maintenance staff of First Church since way before I was born. Most places would have already put an old guy like Dunston out to pasture. First Church had recently hired an independent cleaning service, but they let Dunston stay on part-time to take care of odds and ends.

Dunston liked me. Most folks at the church paid little if any attention to Dunston, but I would always ask him how he was doing, and he would always respond, "Fine-'n-you?" He would come by my closet, uh, my _office_ and tell me colorful stories about fishing. Fishing was his passion. He prided himself as being an expert angler. He had even invented his own special bait and fishing techniques. He once told me his secret to catching The Big Fish. "You gotta hide from 'em. Git y'seff way down low on the bank, or better yet, behind a rock or a tree." He illustrated this for me by crouching behind my table. I would laugh until I cried, but I did take careful notes.

I'd always wanted to be good at fishing, but the truth is I stunk at it. My problem? I couldn't catch any fish. I had vivid memories from a church fishing tournament back home. The whole experience had been an absolute debacle for me from start to finish. I'd borrowed a friend's boat. As I was pulling it out into the lake, the motor jumped off the back of the boat and sank in twelve feet of murky water. We never found it _. Cha-ching._

With my boat out of commission, I hopped in with the best angler in the tourney and figured this was the day I would actually catch a fish. We fished all morning, and neither one of us had so much as a nibble. Not even close. To add insult to injury, about noon (the worst time of day for fishing), a boat-load of old local guys pulled up and anchored next to us. They began catching fish, one right after another, using cane poles and bobbers. As I sat there watching them haul in the big ones, I decided it was time to find another hobby.

Dunston was more than just my fishing tutor. He was also my office renovation supply-man extraordinaire. That awful view of the dumpster right outside my window? He found a curtain from an unused Sunday school classroom and hung it for me. My door, so badly in need of paint? He located some leftover paint in a storage closet. I may not be a seafoam green kind of guy, but it was a marked improvement. He scrounged up an old area rug that still looked pretty good. It covers most of my tile floor. Later, he showed up with two nice office chairs for any visitors I might have. I have no idea where he got them, and I decided not to ask. Finally, since I didn't have an office phone, he procured an old-school two-way wireless office intercom for me. Those small speaker-type boxes used back in the '70s. He put one on my office table and the other on Adrianne's desk on the fifth floor, so she could contact me whenever needed. This saved me tons of transit time and cell phone minutes. Plus, it came with a special bonus feature enabling me to keep up to date on the latest church gossip. By simply tweaking the channel knob on Sunday mornings, I could tune in the baby monitors installed in the nursery. I could hear every juicy tidbit shared amongst the volunteers rocking those babies. If someone at First Church got a _tummy tuck,_ I knew all about it.

In no time, my office renovation was complete. Soon thereafter, Miss Figghie called me on the intercom. "Mr. Jenkins?" There was a lot of static so I adjusted the channel knob.

"Mr. Jenkins?" she repeated.

"Yes, Miss Figghie," I answered in my best pastoral voice.

"Mr. Jenkins, Pastor Applebee has requested that you make a visit out to see Erlene Markham at her home, and he wants you to take one of the other staff guys along with you."

"What time? And what is the purpose of the visit?"

"Noon today. Erlene is the head of our altar counseling room. She's requested a visit, but Pastor Applebee can't go so he's sending you to represent him. She lives at 2346 Oakwood Lane. And, oh yes—Erlene will be providing lunch."

I wrote down the address. "Anything else I need to know?"

She paused. "He did say to watch what you eat."

I laughed. "Thank you, Miss Figghie. Over and out." I clicked off the intercom.

_Okay_ , _they're sending little ol' Elmo Jenkins out on an official church visit._ It wasn't lunch with the Pope, but it was a start. Papal visits would have to come later.

Since I needed a visitation partner, I invited Thurm Wilson. He wasn't interested until I mentioned the free home-cooked meal. Since it was almost lunchtime, we jumped in my car and headed over toward Oakwood Lane.

Thurm eased down in my passenger seat and closed his eyes. "So who are we going to visit?"

"Her name is Erlene Markham. Do you know anything about her?"

Without changing position or opening his eyes, he simply said, "Oh yeah, I know Mrs. Markham." Then he laughed quietly to himself.

"All right, what's the deal here? What am I getting into?"

Thurm sat up. "You've been in the Sunday morning worship service, right?"

"Yeah, sure. Of course."

"You know at the end of the service when folks come forward to make a decision and Dr. Jorgensen directs them to the counseling room? That little old lady in those funky looking dresses, holding open the door? That's Erlene Markham."

"Oh, that lady. I've heard some wild stories about her."

"They're all true and more. Believe me." Thurm laughed out loud.

"Now I see why Applebee sent me on this visit." I wasn't laughing.

Thurm gave me the whole story. Erlene and her late husband Howard had been missionaries overseas for years. After retirement, they moved back here and got actively involved at First Church. Howard catalogued and archived all the filmstrips used throughout the Sunday school. He kept them in a special media room up on the fourth floor. One day he sat down for a break and never got up. Died right there in the media room.

"Jeez, it sure seems like a lot of people drop dead inside those church buildings. Have they ever checked for asbestos?" I coughed. Power of suggestion, I suppose.

"It's not a burning priority." Thurm laughed at his own failed attempt at humor.

"About Erlene?" I asked, desperate for more information before our visit.

Thurm smiled. "Erlene Markham is one special lady, but a little strange. I think she may have the beginnings of Alzheimer's. She's been in charge of the altar counseling room for several years now. She's good at it, very energetic, very knowledgeable about the Bible, and very persuasive. Erlene's a tiny thing, only about five feet tall and well into her eighties, but she's in much better shape than I am. She'd run circles around you."

"I'm not as slow as I look," I fired back. "I'm in great shape—tight abs, firm glutes."

"Anyway," he continued, "several times a year she'll invite a staff member over to her house for lunch. More to socialize than anything else I suspect. She does have one very peculiar habit, though. She loves to tell off-color jokes. And oh yes, she's nearly blind."

"A small, nearsighted, crazed, perverted, senile, ex-missionary, and I have to go into her house and eat her food," I commented as we pulled into her driveway. "Why do I feel like I'm on a reality TV show? _Visitation Fear Factor."_

We rang the bell and when she opened the door, Thurm's vivid description of this little senior adult lady was instantly validated. She greeted us in a bright purple and orange house dress. She had short-cropped silver hair with bangs and a bad overbite. Or maybe she was wearing her dead husband's false teeth by mistake. I immediately thanked God that Thurm had come along.

I decided to be cute. "Good morning, Mrs. Markham. I'm Elmo Jenkins and this is my pool boy, Thurm."

Throwing her head back, she laughed a deep guttural laugh. With a smoker's voice, she wheezed, "I know who you boys are. Please come in."

I held the door for Thurm, and he elbowed me in the ribs as he stepped by me. Thick ornate velvet drapes covered most of the windows, making her house dark. We passed lots of French provincial furniture with a few Oriental pieces mixed in as we followed her into her dining room. She had set the table for three.

We hadn't even taken our seats before she started right in. "Tell me, Mr. Jenkins, how do you like being on the staff of our little church?"

"It's a privilege, Mrs. Markham."

"Please call me Erlene if you would, or Miss Erlene if that's more comfortable."

"Miss Erlene, Thurm here tells me you're a retired missionary, and now you give leadership to our altar counseling ministry."

She gave us a toothy smile. "I was, and I am. I've been serving our Lord for almost eighty years and will for the next eighty."

"That's great!" I looked at Thurm with wide eyes. "I understand you wanted to share some church ministry business with us today. Is that correct?"

Studying me for a moment, she looked me right in the eye. "You're new at this, aren't you?"

I blushed. I know I did. "Wh-what, uh, what do you mean?"

"The other staff members always want to eat first and then get down to business. But not you. You want to talk business first. I like that. Okay, business before food. But first you must let me tell you a joke."

_Oh God, no!_ He answered my prayer as my cell phone went off. "Please excuse me," I said as I stepped into her living room. "Now Thurm, he loves a good joke!" I hollered over my shoulder.

The call was from my advisor's office at Harvest Morgan Seminary needing some additional information about my internship. They also wanted to confirm my weekly meeting with my advisor, Dr. Auguste De Villa. Dr. DV and Erlene would get along great— _talk about crazy love._ The call only lasted a couple of minutes. As I walked back into the dining room Erlene was finishing her joke.

"Then the farmer said, 'but I thought she was your sister!" Erlene croaked, breaking into boisterous laughter.

I glanced at Thurm, his face beet red, his eyes bugging out.

"That must have been some joke," I quipped.

"Would you like me to tell it again?" she grinned.

"No need." I smiled at Thurm trying to compose himself. "I'll get Thurm to tell me on the drive back to the church."

We discussed her church concerns. She stressed the need for more altar counselors, particularly more women and youth. Then she served a delicious lunch she'd picked up at a local delicatessen. She apologized for the store-bought food, explaining she found it difficult to cook these days due to her poor eyesight.

"But I didn't want to totally disappoint you, so I made you my famous peanut butter pie! Even rolled my own crust."

My first bite tasted fabulous. I love homemade pies. I was about to take my second bite when I noticed Thurm making small gestures with his fork, pointing at the crust of his pie. When Miss Erlene turned to ask Thurm a question about his youth ministry, I inspected my own pie crust.

When what to my wondering eyes should appear,

but cockroaches rolled into the crust, oh dear.

I almost gagged. The dead bugs were rolled flat, right into the pie crust. Obviously, Erlene couldn't see well enough to notice these _crunchy additions_ to her pie. What was I going to do with the rest of my piece? Smashing it a bit, I moved it around the plate then covered it with my napkin.

We thanked Erlene for inviting us over. She gave us both a big hug and kiss on the cheek, then we escaped with our lives to my car. On the way back to the church, all we could do was laugh about the visit, but Thurm wouldn't tell me her joke. He swore never to repeat that joke to anyone for any reason. Overall, as my first official visit, I thought it had gone well.

Now all I had to do was deliver the piece of peanut butter pie she had insisted we take back for Tom Applebee.

I smiled to myself.

### The Function

Singles parties. We've all seen them graphically portrayed on television. Beautiful people dancing everywhere. Loud, rowdy music with a gyrating beat. Adult beverages flowing freely. Laser lights flashing through dry-ice smoke. The entire room moves to the music; the noise level overwhelming.

Freeze-frame that picture.

Now remove the loud rowdy music, the liquor, the flashing lights, the dry ice, the dancing, and the beautiful people. What you have left is a Friday night Singles Function meeting in the First Church Fellowship Hall.

A couple of days ago, Singles pastor Louis Estrada slid into my office (now known as _The Closet_ ) and handed me a flyer for an upcoming First Church Singles Function for twenty-something's. You would like to think this meant for single men and single women in their twenties, but such is not the case. In reality, most of the women attending will indeed be in their twenties, but at least half of the guys will be over forty. I have a theory that the older guys get a pass because they usually drive nicer cars and wear expensive clothes.

Church Singles functions are a genre unique unto themselves. Whereas the popular singles parties that take place nightly in clubs across the country tend to resemble more of a _meat market_ , a better analogy for a church Singles function would be a _garage sale_. Some new items, some used items—all looking for a new home and everything priced to move. It's just the way God made us. We're all looking for that special person to share our life with.

Right?

I arrived at Friday night's Singles function on time, but to be honest, I felt completely out of my comfort zone. First, I've never done really well with the ladies. Perhaps I mentioned that before? Second, I'd been there all of fifteen minutes when I spilled guacamole on my white shirt. It looked like I had a bad cold and sneezed green yuck on myself. Great.

In my head, I imagined how this was going to play out.

To pretty girl: _Hi there, my name is Elmo Jenkins. ¿Como se llama?_

Pretty girl: _Sorry, no hablo español, and what's that green crap on your shirt?_

Fortunately, I remembered I had a sports jacket in _The Closet,_ and after a quick round trip, the guacamole stain was safely sequestered out of sight.

After a cursory scan, I determined I knew about half the people in the room. Some were staff members like Juliann Roth, the First Church receptionist, and Bonnie St. Hiliare, Louis Estrada's secretary. As far as potential girlfriends go, I didn't stand much of a chance with either of these ladies. Juliann was way, way out of my league. I was actually surprised she was even there. She's drop-dead beautiful, though definitely not a candidate for a rocket science government grant. Bonnie was attractive and very witty, but she was several years older than me. I saw her as fodder for one of the older guys wearing the $1000 leather jackets.

Since we work together, I figured a little small talk couldn't hurt. Juliann and Bonnie were chatting by the buffet table. Pretending to look over the food, I casually approached them. I couldn't help thinking— _why are singles always standing and talking? Why don't they ever sit down? What does this mean?_

I picked up a plate, staying far, far away from the guacamole bowl, and ended up right next to the girls, all the while feigning that I hadn't noticed them there. I might have mentioned earlier I'm not particularly good at this party stuff.

"Hey Elmo," Bonnie said, breaking the ice. "Isn't it kind of warm in here for a wool sports coat?"

Caught off guard, I'm quite sure I blushed. "Well, I, uh . . . well, you see, um—"

"I think it looks nice." Juliann said, coming to my rescue.

"Thanks," I said, regrouping. "Can you all keep a secret—you know, between staff members?"

Serious, concerned expressions crossed their faces. "Sure Elmo, what is it?" Bonnie asked.

I leaned in to whisper. "The reason I'm wearing this very hot jacket is because . . ." I paused for effect. "It's because I spilled guacamole on my shirt." Then, as if revealing a hidden gunshot wound, I slowly opened my coat.

Juliann sighed and slapped me on the shoulder. "I thought it was something serious, silly."

I smiled. "No, really, it's just that I'm not used to eating _inside_."

They both laughed. For me, this was a good start. A _very_ good start.

Still, it happened. That old, familiar, awkward pause. When three adults mildly acquainted, stand there trying to think of something interesting to say.

I fearfully jumped back in. "Do you gals come to these gatherings often?"

_Gals? Gatherings? Where did_ that _come from?_

"I've been coming a lot lately. I'm kind of between boyfriends," Juliann whispered, giggling.

I was beginning to get a read on Juliann. Like one of those model homes on the cover of _Better Homes & Gardens_, she was breathtakingly beautiful on the outside, but quite vacant on the inside. Though she's a brunette, I couldn't help stealing a quick look for blonde roots.

Bonnie took her turn. "As Louis's secretary, I'm obligated to be here and make sure all the bases are covered. I'm really not much into the singles scene.

"Me neither," I said, half-lying. "However, I'd like to get to know some more people my age here at the church."

Our little conversation came to an abrupt close as we were summoned to the middle of the room. Time for the program to begin. The leadership team had placed thirty chairs in a circle. _Uh oh. Kumbaya time?_ Thankfully, I discovered this group was more hip than that. Although we did start off by going around the circle and introducing ourselves. Each person had to share one significant thing about themselves. _Swell._

First up was Art. He worked for UPS and collected Elvis memorabilia. Next came Jerry, a stockbroker who sang in the church choir. Cyndi worked as a loan officer and loved to cook. (It showed.) Debbie was a graphic artist and the reigning state Scrabble champion. (I was at a loss for words.) Nicholas was an anesthesiologist and amateur golfer. We continued around the circle—David, Judy, Ernie, and several others whose names I've already forgotten. Your typical group of church singles, some enjoying the group friendship, others looking for potential dates, most pretty lonely.

Over the next six months, many of these people would become my dear friends.

There's a unique bond that forms in a young singles group. Many of the members are separated from their families by distance, so the group becomes their surrogate family. This type of group is fluid, always changing as new members arrive and existing members either move away or marry. The dynamics of a young singles group are different than, say, a college group where everyone is pushing toward a degree or career. In a young singles group, most of the members are already established in life. They're just looking for fun, friends, and maybe some romance along the way.

We played a few of the regular group games, watched a _Best of Saturday Night_ _Live_ DVD from the '70s, then it was food time.

Most everyone had brought a dish for the potluck supper. I had prepared my famous _Elmo Surprise:_

One box macaroni and cheese (the cheapest you can find)

One can of chili with beans (store brand is fine)

One packet grated cheddar cheese (mild)

One small package sliced pepperoni

Instructions: Cook the macaroni and cheese per box instructions and leave in pan. Add the chili and stir until mixed well and heated thoroughly. Pour into an 8-x-8 Pyrex dish and cover with grated cheese, and then a layer of pepperoni. Bake in oven at 350° for 20 minutes. Voila!

Well, I like it. And therein lies the problem with a singles potluck dinner. Most singles are fast food junkies, some never cook. Which means we end up with about twenty casserole dishes, some of which are virtually unrecognizable. Personal favorites, I assume. I chose a healthy portion of _Elmo's Surprise_ , some chips (sans guacamole), the always reliable refried beans, jello, and a Fresca. The person responsible for bringing the drinks brought only Fresca. And he wonders why he's still single?

Finding an empty chair, I sat down with my gourmet meal. To my utter astonishment, Bonnie took the seat next to me. Juliann had exited earlier, so Bonnie was alone. I noticed she wasn't eating.

"Couldn't find anything at the _Buffet Ole'_ that motivated your taste buds?" I joked.

"I'm not much for potlucks. I'm pretty finicky when it comes to what I eat." She surveyed my plate.

I took one more bite then set my plate aside. It was just too weird having someone I hardly knew sitting there watching me eat.

"So tell me, Bonnie. How long have you been working here at First Church?"

"Oh, I don't know. Two or three years, I guess. I started out as the church receptionist, then Louis asked me to come be his secretary. The pay was better, so I accepted the invitation. I've been the Singles ministry secretary for going on two years now."

"Are you from around here?

"No, I grew up in a little town in South Carolina. I moved here to attend Bargston College. I graduated with a degree in English Literature four years ago. My plan was to work a few years and save up the money to go back for my masters. The only problem is, I haven't saved up any money, so here I am, a working class stiff at First Church."

I did the quick math in my head. If she graduated from college four years ago, that would make her around twenty-six years old. That was only about a year older than me. I could live with that.

I continued probing. "How do you like working here at First Church?"

She pondered my question for a moment. "It's okay, I guess. Louis is a great boss, and I like working with the Singles ministry. But my dream is to teach and write. Someday, I want to write publishable American fiction and teach literature at a college like Bargston. What about you?"

I decided to break Rule #1 and share my honest feelings with another staff member—albeit an attractive, single, female, interesting, staff member. "At the risk of sounding too pious, I have a sincere desire to serve God with my life, and I'm not yet sure how to do that. I have mixed feelings about working in the church. When I first accepted this internship, it was all about making career contacts and getting an upgrade on my resume. But now it's developed into more of a discovery, or personal journey for me. God is really messing with me on a deeper level than just the day-to-day ministry training I'm getting here."

I looked at Bonnie and immediately wished I'd kept it more superficial. She had that _more-information-than-I-really-wanted-to-know_ look on her face. So I took a left turn and lightened it up. "It's been an adventure. Let me tell you about my visit out to Erlene Markham's house the other day."

Several minutes later, my moment with Bonnie was interrupted by Eddie Hughes. Every church singles group has a guy like Eddie. Early thirties, never married, and probably never had a real girlfriend. Yet Eddie fashioned himself as quite the ladies' man. He drove most of the single girls crazy by phoning them repeatedly. Eddie wasn't picky about who he pursued. Tall or short, fat or thin, ugly or attractive, Eddie called 'em all. Several times a year, Louis Estrada would have to sit down with Eddie and ask him to refrain from harassing the single women at the church. Eddie would repent, promise to do better, lay low for a few weeks, then slowly begin making calls again. He wasn't dangerous; just a nuisance.

Eddie had one quirky habit which I found quite humorous. He didn't do it on purpose; it was just part of who he was. Eddie mixed metaphors and confused clichés in the worst ways. He'd approach some poor, unsuspecting woman and introduce himself with a smile. Then, in a futile attempt to be cool or clever, he'd say something stupid or offensive, never even realizing it.

Tonight was one of those nights, and Eddie was about to deliver one of his biggest faux pas of all time.

Eddie burst right into the middle of our conversation. "Hey Elmo. I see you're tying up one of the hottest ladies in the whole church." He coughed. "I mean with conversation, not ropes or anything like that."

Bonnie winced. "Well, Eddie, how are you? Nice sweater vest."

"I'm good, sweetie. Good as gold. What are you two talking about so serious and all?" His eyes widened in his attempt to look serious.

"Elmo was just telling me about some of his ministry training activities here at the church," Bonnie answered.

Eddie smiled. "We've got a great staff, all the way from Dr. Jorgenson down to Dunston Jones. Yes ma'am, they're great from 'throne to throne'." He laughed wildly at his own joke. I didn't get it. Neither did Bonnie. Eddie must have realized from our blank expressions that we were clueless, so he quickly explained. "You know—Dr. Jorgenson as pastor sits on the royal throne, and Dunston as janitor cleans the porcelain throne. Get it?" He laughed boisterously again. Bonnie contributed a courtesy laugh, but I didn't. It wasn't funny.

He wouldn't go away. "Speaking of the great staff; did you all hear Pastor Applebee's sermon on sexual purity last Sunday night?" And then with Eddie's unique gift of word confusion, he added, "That was some powerful sermon. Yes, sir. It hit me right between the legs!"

No. Tell me he did not just say that! No way.

But the expression on Bonnie's face left little doubt. She'd heard it too.

A moment later, Eddie meandered away to bother someone else. Bonnie, her face still flushed, looked at me and whispered, "Did he just say what I think he said?"

"Yes, I'm afraid he did." We shared an incredulous, esoteric laugh. It took us quite a while to regain our composure.

After dinner, we played a few more silly group games, then the evening wound down. Overall, I have to say I had a good time. I got to know several of the singles a little better. I would do it again.

I didn't think a whole lot more about my conversation with Bonnie other than to reconfirm that Rule #1 was still a good idea. Twice now I'd let down my guard with other staff members, only to regret it.

Collecting my empty Pyrex dish, I grabbed the last Fresca and headed up to _The Closet_ to drop off my sports coat. It had been a long week, and I was looking forward to sleeping in on Saturday morning.

### The Queen Bee

To be totally honest, I had started the internship with a healthy dose of cynicism. When I first decided to pursue a career in church work, I had a focused desire to honor God with my gifts and talents, as limited as they are. My home church pastor had mentored me, given me some training, ordained me, and shipped me off to seminary to hone my skills. I arrived at campus naive but eager. But by the conclusion of the first year, my—shall we say "Salad Days"—had come to an end.

My cynicism about the local church and vocational ministry started subtly, but continued to grow. By the time my internship at First Church started, I had a full-blown jaded view of most ministers, and serious doubts about the effectiveness of the modern church. For me, church work had become more of a career opportunity than a sincere commitment to change the world for God.

Life has a funny way of confirming or destroying our preconceived ideas about things. Through my internship, I was confronting many new situations—some were validating my cynicism, and others were chipping away at it.

My first interaction with Annette May Jorgensen, the senior pastor's wife—aka _the Queen Bee_ —did nothing but solidify my cynical perspective. Since Day One, I'd been pulled aside and warned numerous times by other staff to be careful around the Queen Bee. "Greater men than you have been beheaded by her whims," I'd been told. I'm rather partial to my head, so I determined I'd be extra diligent if I ever had to deal with her directly.

Annette May Jorgensen's maiden name was Fitzsimons, as in the wealthy and powerful Fitzsimons family. As you may recall, I met Tom Applebee at the Fitzsimons estate the night of their open house—the night that redirected the course of my life. Annette May Jorgensen was Smitty Fitzsimonses baby sister. Smitty and Horace Jorgensen had been roommates at Yale, and he had introduced Annette May to Horace. They fell in love and eventually married. When First Church began searching for a new senior pastor, Smitty was instrumental in getting Horace hired for the position.

It was obvious, even to a newcomer like me, that the Queen Bee had a serious "entitlement perspective" on life, especially down at the church. In laymen's terms, she got what she wanted with no questions asked.

There are pastors' wives who are notorious for meddling and for power plays. Fortunately for everyone at First Church, Annette May did not care for the minutiae of church work. Subsequently, she stayed out of almost everything with the exception of two or three pet projects per year. Dr. Jorgensen was masterful at keeping his wife at bay concerning situations critical to the life of the church. But when it came to her pet projects, he gave her carte blanche and would consistently take her side in any associated controversy.

Woe to the staff member who crosses Annette May Jorgensen. That miscalculation would be followed quickly by the death fumes of "career suicide."

I had absolutely no desire to go near the Queen Bee's kingdom. But fate had other plans.

My office intercom came to life one afternoon. "Elmo, are you there?" Tom Applebee asked.

"Hey Tom. What can I do for you?" I pulled my feet off my table.

"I have a very special assignment I need you to handle. Our minister of recreation Johnny Rochelle would handle it, but he's out for several weeks with a pulled groin or something."

_Who pulled it?_ I felt like asking, but thought better of it.

"What's involved?" I asked.

"It's some type of Father & Daughter activity . . ." —and then he said it—"that ANNETTE MAY JORGENSEN is organizing."

I was speechless. My worst nightmare had begun. I had nowhere to hide.

"Elmo? Are you there?" A long pause followed. "Elmo? Can you hear me?"

I took a deep breath. "Yes, Tom, I'm here. Must be the intercom cutting out again on me," I lied.

Tom continued. "I've arranged for you to meet with Mrs. Jorgensen and her assistant Betty later this afternoon."

"Here?" I sputtered. "In my . . . _my_ office?"

Tom chuckled. "Listen, you've done a fine job fixing that place up, but Mrs. Jorgensen doesn't _do_ closets. She'll meet you at four this afternoon in the church parlor." Then he offered some advice. "Just relax and let her run the show. Take lots of notes but don't ask too many questions. The key here is to listen and say, 'Yes, ma'am' often."

"I'll be there." I turned off the intercom. Talk about good days going south. I closed my eyes and began to formulate a strategy. _Okay, okay. This is supposed to be an internship to learn how to work in the church. This is my opportunity to learn how to work with powerful, though problematic people. If I can succeed with the Queen Bee, I can succeed with anyone._

I arrived at the church parlor at 3:45. I wasn't about to be late for this meeting. Killing the extra minutes, I looked around, admiring the elegance of the exquisite room. Used primarily for wedding receptions, special church-related parties, and an occasional civic event, the parlor's opulence impressed me. An enormous chandelier hung over the middle of the room. Expensive carpet covered the floor. I'd been told all the furniture was custom handmade in Europe specifically for this room. I wasn't sure I was allowed to sit on it, so I just stood waiting.

Betty Darby, the Queen Bee's assistant, arrived first. She introduced herself and said that Mrs. Jorgensen would join us in a few moments. Evidently, the Queen Bee had decided to drop in on Pastor Jorgensen for a surprise visit. _I hope the good pastor isn't over at the country club "visiting the Greens" again._ It was a standard joke amongst the staff. Horace loved to golf.

Betty and I chatted for about twenty minutes while we waited. A very nice middle-aged lady, I wondered if she were paid by the church or by the Jorgensens. I would keep that question to myself.

At 4:20, both double doors gently opened, and Annette May Jorgensen floated into the room.

"Good afternoon," I said, half bowing though not sure why.

"Thank you for coming," she answered, easing down onto one of the overstuffed chairs. Betty nodded at me, then we both took a seat on a couch.

The Queen Bee continued. "And I really appreciate you pinch-hitting for Johnny. I understand the poor man is home nursing a sore foot."

I laughed on the inside, but quietly smiled on the outside. "Oh, it's a privilege and a pleasure for me to fill in, Mrs. Jorgensen."

For forty-five minutes, I listened and took copious notes. Mrs. Jorgensen, who had watched _Oprah_ faithfully for years, had seen a recent rerun of an _Oprah_ show on the topic of fathers and daughters. The Jorgensens had a fourteen-year-old daughter named Stacey. So the Queen Bee thought how wonderful it would be to plan a special event just for the teenage girls of First Church and their fathers.

She talked about the food. She talked about the entertainment. She talked about the arrangement of the room, the tickets, and the appropriate dress code. She already had a theme in mind: _Behind every great man, there's a great daughter!_ There were obvious problems with this theme, of course, but instead of saying anything I just glanced at Betty. She responded with a tight smile, silently telling me to keep my mouth shut. Mrs. Jorgensen continued for another half-hour, filling the air with an expansive list of minute details that you-know-who would no doubt have to work out.

I didn't want to come across as a total lackey, so at one point I jumped in.

"Tell me Mrs. Jorgensen, how many people do you anticipate will attend the event?"

Without blinking, she shot back, "Those are the kind of details I'm expecting _you_ to work out, Mr. Jenkins."

That would be my last question of the day.

Mercifully, we finished the meeting and said our goodbyes. I slumped back onto the designer couch and flipped back through my notepad. I had taken eleven pages of singled-spaced notes, most of which outlined action items I would be directly responsible for. I was overwhelmed. This would be a mammoth job. Now I knew what happened to Johnny Rochelle. His groin wasn't pulled. It had been kicked—and exceedingly hard.

I immediately empathized.

Limping back up to _The Closet,_ I started making calls using my cell phone. I hoped I'd be reimbursed for the expense. Working until ten that evening, and most of the next day, I still had way too many pages of the assigned tasks to accomplish. Exhausted, I went home and stewed.

Who was this lady dominating my life, with this unbelievable list of mundane tasks, for an event that had absolutely _nothing_ to do with me or my ministry training?! And why didn't she assign some of this junk to her paid assistant Betty? I needed some answers, so I gave the injured one, Johnny Rochelle, a call.

"Hello?"

"Hey Johnny, this is Elmo Jenkins, the church intern. I understand you're on the disabled list."

"Well, I tore a thigh muscle playing intramural volleyball at the church Rec Center."

"Yeah, I know. I was pitched one of your assignments—working on a special event with Mrs. Jorgensen."

"Better you than me. My leg feels better already," he laughed.

I wasn't amused. "What's the deal with her? She comes up with some grandiose idea and has me doing literally all the work. And I mean _all_ of it. I bet she doesn't even show up for the event."

"She may or may not," Johnny explained. 'That's just how it is with her, Elmo. Believe me, I know. I've worked with—excuse me— _for_ her many times. And don't expect much appreciation for your efforts."

"Well, that's bleak," I bellyached. "Any suggestions?"

He hesitated. "I suggest you lose the pity party, suck it up, and do the best you can."

I paused. "All right then, I think I've got it. Good night, Johnny." I hung up the phone. At first, I was ticked, but the more I thought about it, I decided Johnny was right.

I went to bed thinking about the different ways a person could orchestrate a timely leg injury. What does a minister of recreation _do_ anyway? . . . _zzzzz . . ._

The next morning I jumped right in and systematically started knocking out each task on my list. I was a virtual machine—lining up parking attendants, ordering hors d'oeuvres, estimating the number of available seats. I actually started to feel good about the project. Not only was my list almost completed, I also had a feeling this was going to be an excellent event.

While looking through a list of potential deejays, Tom's voice crackled over my intercom. "Elmo? Are you there?"

"I sure am. What's up, Tom?"

"You know that project I put you on for Mrs. Jorgensen?"

"Yeah?" I set down the list of deejays.

"It's been cancelled."

"What?! What do you mean _cancelled_?" I fumed, exasperated. "I've already put in over twenty hours of work into this project!"

"Mrs. Jorgensen ran the idea by her daughter. Stacey told her the idea sucked, and assured her none of the teenage girls would come. So Annette May decided to can the event. I'm really sorry, but just close it down and wrap up any necessary loose ends."

"Okay. Thanks," I said, not meaning it. I switched off the intercom. Sitting there in shock, I felt like the refuse of the rich and famous. If this is what it was going to be like working full-time in a church, I didn't want anything to do with it. Let the kiss-up Johnny Rochelles of the world have this crap. God was going to have to clarify a few things for me. It felt like I was interning at some religious version of the DMV.

I turned the intercom back on. "Adrianne? You there?"

"Yes, "she answered.

"Tell Tom I'm going home for the rest of the day. I've sustained a groin pull."

I clicked off the intercom, then slammed _The Closet_ door behind me. The impact knocked my new nameplate to the floor.

Not that I cared.

### The Snafu

Even the mailbox case at First Church reflected the staff hierarchy-of-importance. Located in the break room, the case resembled one you might see in a post office with five or six rows of slots. The top row had only two mail slots; subsequently they were quite large—one for Dr. Jorgenson, the other for Tom Applebee. Then, with each descending row, the slots grew progressively smaller, until you reached the last slot on the last row which was barely big enough for a small envelope. This was my slot. It wasn't even labeled. _Oh the subtle humiliation of it all_. So I defiantly made a label for all the world to see as a reminder that bottom dwellers are people too: _Elmo the Great._ Unfortunately, as I attempted to put the new label in place I discovered it was much too wide. After trimming it down to size I was left with _"mo the Gr."_ I figured what the heck and taped it up there anyway. At least it would keep them guessing.

If anyone even noticed.

Around ten o'clock on Friday morning, I swung by the mail case to check my slot. Three items of interest and a bunch of religious junk mail crammed my humble slot. After discarding the mailers for _101 Ways to Improve Your Preaching Now on DVD_ and _Using Bobblehead Dolls of the Apostles to Grow Your Sunday School,_ I was left with:

▪ The next staff meeting agenda

▪ A memo from Tom Applebee concerning my assignments

▪ A sealed envelope with _Elmo_ written on the front

I walked up one flight of stairs, then down the hall and into _The Closet_ where I flipped on the light and tossed my mail on the table. Normally at this point, I would've taken off my sports jacket or suit coat, but this was casual Friday. One Friday a month the staff is allowed to dress casually. That meant a short sleeved-shirt or perhaps a collared sport shirt, no tie, and casual slacks. On this particular day, I wore Dockers and a blue golf shirt.

Before I could even sit down, Miss Figghie's voice came over my intercom. "Elmo? Are you there?"

I pressed the call button. "Just walked in. What's up?"

She sounded urgent. "We have an emergency. There are one hundred people over at Forest Lakes Cemetery waiting for Deacon Phillip's graveside service to begin."

"Okay. What's the emergency?"

"Dr. Jorgensen is supposed to perform the service, but he's nowhere to be found. We've been trying to track him down for the last thirty minutes with no luck."

"Well, who's going to cover it?" I laughed to myself, imagining Tom Applebee or Fred Snooker having to bust cheeks over there to rescue the situation.

"That's the problem," Miss Figghie stated flatly. "There's no one around today but you."

Uh oh.

I'd never done a funeral before, much less one without any time to prepare. _Think, Elmo, think! "_ Wait a minute," I shouted into the intercom. "I just saw Thurm Wilson downstairs. Call his office and have him meet me in the staff parking lot, pronto. We'll get this covered."

Thurm jumped into my car and off we went. I noticed he too was wearing a golf shirt.

"What's the deal?" he asked.

"A bunch of people are over at the cemetery, including one dead guy, waiting for a graveside service, and Dr. Jorgensen is a no-show. Ever done a funeral service?"

Thurm sat up in his seat. "Whoa, where's Horace?"

"They can't find him, and I'm too nervous to speculate. Again, have you ever done a funeral service?" I asked urgently.

Thurm was cool under fire. "Yeah, I've done a few. You open with a prayer, read the particulars about the deceased from the obituary, then read the first part of John chapter 14, followed by the 23rd Psalm, and close with the Lord's Prayer. It's not too hard."

"Great." I sighed with relief. "You've just been nominated to save Dr. Jorgensen's tail."

"No way," Thurm shot back. "I'm in a golf shirt!"

"Sorry Thurm, but your pastor needs you, these people need you, and I need you. I've never done a funeral before! Here's my Bible. Start preparing."

Thurm reluctantly took my Bible, resolved to the inevitable. " _The New Living_ translation? Who uses _The New Living_ translation?"

"Shut up and start getting ready! We'll be there in no time."

When we arrived at Forest Lakes Cemetery, the people had been waiting a full hour for the service to begin. We apologized for Dr. Jorgensen not being there, we apologized for our casual clothing, we apologized for the late start, then we apologized for apologizing so much. The family members were understanding, but anxious to get on with the service. The funeral director handed Thurm a copy of the program with the obituary included, and he started the service. From my perspective, it went quite well. I was impressed. Thurm hit a home run covering all the bases, and came across very caring, as if he'd actually known these people or spent some time with the family before the service.

I was congratulating Thurm after the service when we were approached by Deacon Phillip's daughter. She thanked us for coming to the rescue, then dropped a bomb on poor old Thurm. Evidently Deacon Phillip's first name was Jacob. He had a twin brother named Jeffrey. Jeffrey attended the service, sitting in the front row. In his rush to get the service started, Thurm had misread the funeral program and eulogized Jeffrey the brother, instead of Jacob, the deceased. All of Thurm's kind comments about a life of service and the welcome reception at the Pearly Gates had accidentally been about a living, breathing man sitting right in front of him in the front row. But the daughter was very gracious, and even shared that Jeffrey was so impressed with Thurm's eulogy, that he had requested him to do it again for his funeral when the time came.

Thurm was mortified. Me? I thought it was hilarious but mostly glad it hadn't happened to me.

The sister handed me a check made out to Dr. Jorgensen for $100, asking me to thank him for all he had done for the family during this difficult time.

_How about that. He misses the funeral and still gets a check and a thank you. Man, senior pastors are held in high esteem_.

Wonder if he's on the front nine or the back nine?

When we got back to the church, I was informed that Dr. Jorgenson was in his office. Turns out he'd been handling a life-and-death emergency for one of our members at Memorial Hospital. Because the situation had been so touch-and-go, he'd not even been able to check in with the church. I went up to his office to give him the check for the funeral. He graciously thanked me for my role in getting the graveside service covered. He'd already heard about Thurm's snafu, and we both chuckled about it.

Then Dr. Jorgensen told me about the strangest funeral he'd ever participated in. Several years ago, he'd received a call from an attorney out on the west coast. Apparently an old millionaire had died and left specific details about his funeral in his will. If these details were followed precisely as instructed, fifty percent of the dead man's wealth would go to a certain world mission agency. The attorney, who represented this mission organization, called to inform him that the dead millionaire had requested Dr. Jorgensen preside over his burial at sea. He also wanted to be buried in a casket. The man had even listed the exact latitude and longitude for the burial location at sea. For the sake of the mission agency, Dr. Jorgensen had flown out there as instructed, and on the designated day, he joined about fifty other people for a four-hour boat ride out into international waters. It was illegal under the nearest state's law to bury a person at sea in a casket.

Under these unusual circumstances, Dr. Jorgensen performed his regular funeral service, and all was going according to plan until something very unexpected happened. After the family said their farewells, the casket was released over the side of the boat. It floated, refusing to submerge. The family was understandably shaken by the spectacle. The poor funeral directors were perplexed, so they huddled together and formulated a plan. One of the funeral home employees stripped down to his pants, put on a life jacket, then was lowered down into the water. He swam to the casket, opened the lid and let it fill with water. It _still_ didn't sink. Some of the family members were beside themselves. Finally, one of the boat crewmen came up with a workable plan. They brought the casket back on board, attached the spare boat anchor to it, chain and all, then threw both the casket and the anchor over the side of the yacht where it sunk to the bottom of the ocean.

"Right there on that boat that day, I vowed I'd never do another funeral at sea," Dr. Jorgensen said.

I left his office wondering what my first funeral would be like and hoping I wouldn't have to don a life jacket.

Back at _The Closet_ , I started going through my mail. I browsed the staff meeting agenda for next week. Nothing stood out except for one name: Eddie Hughes. I figured it must be time for one of those periodic meetings with Eddie, telling him to back off harassing the singles chicks. I wondered how long the staff would tolerate Eddie before just telling him to find another church home. Maybe that time had arrived.

Then I picked up the interoffice memo from my supervisor, Tom Applebee. It was attached to a book entitled _Pastoral Ministry for Dummies._

MEMO:

To: Mr. Ellington "Elmo" Jenkins

From: Pastor Tom Applebee

Re: Evaluation

Elmo,

Since you have now completed the first month of your First Church internship, I thought it appropriate to give you my initial evaluation. So far, I am very pleased with what I see. Dr. Jorgensen shares my opinion. We like your initiative and your ability to cut through the church hype and get to the meat of the situation. You get an A+ for people skills. This has been verified by the relationships you have already developed with many of the staff, and from reports we're hearing about your interactions with members of the church.

On the practical side, we will now be asking you to take on a few ministerial duties. This will add experience to your obvious knowledge base. I have included a copy of the book Pastoral Ministry for Dummies. This thin volume will give you some basic instruction on how to prepare and perform pastoral duties like funerals, weddings, baptisms, etc.

Keep up the great work.

Tom Applebee

I folded the memo and smiled. _Good start, Elmo._ I pretended to pat myself on the back. I set the book aside, but not far. Remembering this morning's emergency graveside service, I knew this "how to" book would come in handy.

The last piece of mail was a small sealed envelope with my first name handwritten on the front. The envelope was pale purple. I hoped it wasn't from a guy.

I opened the envelope and pulled out a note card. It simply said,

Would you consider doing lunch sometime?

Bonnie

At first, I was taken aback. No, to be honest, I was astonished! I'd never received an invitation from a female before. It was courteous, concise, and to the point. But wait a minute. Bonnie was breaking the rules. Wasn't the guy supposed to be the initiator?

I couldn't decide if I was more flattered or more concerned by her aggressiveness.

My contemplation would have to wait for now. It was Friday with much left to accomplish, and the day was already half over.

### The Indigestion

On Monday morning, I had a message in my wee little mailbox to drop by the office of Bob Stevens, the church administrator. And of course, the yahoo signed it Bob "Big Bird" Stevens. You need to understand Bob is all of five feet four, and that's with double lifts. Since Bob's office was on the first floor right around the corner from the mailboxes, I went there first.

Tapping on the partially open door, I stuck my head into his office. "Hey, has anyone seen Big Bird around these parts?"

Bob looked up from his budget reports and cracked a big smile. "Elmo! Good. Have a seat."

As I sat down in the red leather chair facing his desk, I noticed the paneled wall to my left covered with framed photographs from the Caribbean—specifically the Cayman Islands, Bob's annual vacation spot. Without fully thinking through the implications of my question I asked, "Bob, have you ever read John Grisham's book The _Firm_?"

He jettisoned his smile and stared right into my eyes.

_Uh oh_. _Wish I had that question back_.

Bob maintained his stare. _Awkward._ A contemplative pause hung between us. Finally, in a not-so-serious tone, he quipped, "Who's got time to read fiction?" He let out a sinister little laugh. The laugh of a sinister little man.

He quickly segued to the reason for summoning me to his office. "Elmo, we evaluate all interns on an ongoing basis. When we determine that they're a good fit here—dedicated to the task and serious about learning the ropes of local church ministry—we seal the deal. You've reached that point, and I'm pleased to inform you that we're rewarding you with a new laptop computer. It's outfitted with a wireless card and already programmed with access to our church network, including email. Your email address will be elmo-the-intern@fc-online.org. The best news of all is that you get to keep the laptop, even after your internship is over, courtesy of one of our generous members."

"Wow," I blurted out. "Thank you! Will it connect from my clos. . . ?" I caught myself. "From my office?"

Bob's big smile returned. "It will not only connect from your office, but from any place in town that provides a courtesy wireless service, including your seminary. You can even connect to our network while sipping snooty coffee at places like Starbucks."

"Man! Thank you, Bob." I took the box from him. "Starbucks? Wow," I mumbled to myself as I left his office.

The time had come. I needed to respond to Bonnie's lunch invitation. What better way to break in my new computer than to send her my first email. Setting the laptop on my office table, I opened the lid. While the laptop booted up, I reviewed what I knew about Bonnie:

1. She was Louis Estrada's secretary and had worked at First Church for two or three years.

2. She had graduated from college and wanted to be a teacher and a writer.

3. She had a quick, witty sense of humor.

4. She was attractive with long brown hair, bright eyes, and a great smile. She must have worn braces because her teeth were all straight and in the correct places.

5. And for some unknown reason, she apparently wanted to get to know me better.

Laughing out loud, I remembered what a nerd I was when it came to this whole dating/girlfriend thing. I'd been on a few dates, but nothing ever came of them. Truth be known, I'd never even kissed a girl. Twenty-five years old and never been kissed. Pathetic. So now I have this nice girl asking me out to lunch, and I'm hesitant. Not because I'm fearful or shy, but because I'm Old School. _Shouldn't I be the one asking her out?_ Deciding to turn the tables, I upped the ante. Forget lunch. I would ask her out for a full-blown dinner date.

Launching Outlook Express, I clicked on _Create Mail_. A window opened, and I dove right in.

Bonnie,

_Thanks for the lunch invite, but I'd rather take you out to dinner instead. I know it sounds corny, but let's just say I'm kind of old-fashioned. How does Friday night sound? I know a great upscale Cuban restaurant over on Murphy Road —Casa Verdi, which translates, the Green House. Wonderful food and a lush, exotic décor. By the way, they do have a dress code. A sign over the front door says,_ No Tie, No Taco. _Let me know what you think._

Elmo

I read back over the email, typed in bonnie@fc-online.org and clicked _Send_. At least, I _assumed_ that was her email address.

The email notification chime sounded on my new laptop while I was looking over my hospital visitation slips and planning the rest of my day. _Less than an hour for her to respond. Gotta be a good sign_. Of course, a wise old saying states (and I euphemistically paraphrase), "assumptions make us look like _rear-ends_."

The return email came from Bonnie all right, but not _that_ Bonnie. It was from Bonnie, the First Church librarian. _We have a church librarian named Bonnie?_ I didn't even know we _had_ a church librarian! I DIDN'T KNOW WE HAD A CHURCH LIBRARY!

I grimaced as I opened the email.

Dear Elmo,

I'm flattered by your dinner invitation, and though I was momentarily tempted to accept it, to be honest, I'm not sure Ralph, my husband of 40 years, would understand. Something tells me you meant to send this message to Bonnie St. Hiliare. Her email address is bsh3436@fc-online.org. Besides, whenever I eat Spanish food it gives me awful indigestion.

Thanks anyway,

Bonnie Johnstone

Church Librarian

All of a sudden, I had indigestion. Who would've thought—a church librarian with a sense of humor? Now there's an anomaly. I emailed back an apology and resent my invitation to the correct Bonnie.

Sitting there in the shadow of my own embarrassment for a few moments, I pondered the humiliation I would surely be suffering thanks to my email screw-up. Or maybe I'd catch a break and Bonnie-the-librarian would take pity on me and keep this our little secret. The kind of secret held between friends and only ever acknowledged by a subtle smile or mischievous wink.

As I was wallowing in self-pity, a glinting flash of light caught my eye from across the utility closet. Just a pinpoint of light, but extremely bright nonetheless. I could only see it if I held my head just so. Whatever was giving off the light was small, and it was just barely protruding from behind the left corner of an old metal supplies shelf against the wall.

Getting up to investigate, I noticed that one of the curtains had been pushed back, allowing a car windshield in the parking lot beyond the dumpster to bounce the midday sun directly through my window. It reflected off this object behind the shelf. Approaching the shelf, I could now see the corner of something metallic and shiny. I gave it a tug, pulling it free from a crack in the wall. Just an old foil wrapper from a stick of chewing gum. Maybe Juicy Fruit? Doublemint? I started to crumple it up to toss in the trash when I noticed there was some writing on the inside. In blue ink, someone had written,

" _I told you that is what he would do. You should have taken my advice. Now you'll have the devil to pay!" — T.B.T._

It was dated May 17th, 1959.

_That's odd._ I was too intrigued to just throw it away, so I put the wrapper in my wallet and made a mental note to drop in on old Fred Snooker.

A knock on my door reverberated around my _shabby chic_ walls, startling me.

"Just a second," I said as I walked across the room. Opening the door, I was shocked to find Bonnie. (No, not Bonnie-the-librarian. That would be way too weird).

She smiled. "Hey, Elmo. Got your email."

"And you responded in person," I voiced out loud.

_Awkward_. We stood there in silence for several seconds.

"Well, are you going to invite me in?" She was still smiling.

"To be honest, I'm not quite sure the correct protocol for a male staff member inviting a female staff member into a church closet."

Her eyes widened as she started to laugh, then abruptly stopped. "You know, you're probably right, Elmo. I'd hate for either of us to jeopardize our jobs over some dumb misperception by a janitor or, I don't know, maybe the church librarian?"

I felt the blood drain from my face.

"Count me in for Friday night. Pick me up at 6:30." She tossed me the aforementioned mischievous wink then delivered her final barb. "I'll _email_ you my street address and phone number." And with that she was gone.

I soon discovered that "Bonnie-the-church-librarian" was a charter member of First Church's Gossip Hall of Fame.

_Ouch_.

### The Walking Wedgie

Since almost the beginning of my internship, I'd been assigned hospital visitation. Making cold calls on people I didn't know, who didn't know me, was more than a little outside my comfort zone. The staff at First Church not only visited its members who were in the hospital, but also anyone else who either called in requesting a visit for themselves or for a friend or neighbor. Requests even came from out of state asking us to visit folks in our local hospitals. We had nine hospitals in our city, so the staff had divided them into three zones. Each staff member was assigned a zone and a day of the week for making hospital visits. Through a very unfortunate draw, I got Mondays. Hospitals are always _jammed_ on Mondays.

After pondering this Monday phenomenon for a while, I formulated a theory. I identified several interesting, though unrelated reasons why so many bodies ended up in the hospital on Monday mornings.

First, I conjectured that most people tend to be more reckless on the weekends. Whether at wild parties or family picnics, people are just more careless about where they put their feet and what they put in their mouths on weekends.

Second, in my opinion, most people hate their jobs. So to enter the hospital on a Saturday would be an abject tragedy. Why? It consumes a day off or even two. Whereas, waiting to enter the hospital on Monday could render _three to five days_ away from the office or factory. This alone, I decided, was enough motivation for many very sick individuals to hold on until Monday morning before they headed to the emergency room.

Whatever the actual reasons, I always ended up with a fist-full of visitation slips on Monday morning. The routine was pretty much the same for each visit. Locate the correct room (not always an easy task), identify the patient to be visited, make a brief introduction, an even briefer visit, then close with a quick prayer. Start to finish, five minutes tops. Often the patients were sedated or asleep, so I would pray for them silently then leave my card.

My last visit on this particular Monday was a little more unusual. I found Ramona Muscarella comatose in ICU and very near death. Praying quietly for her and her family, I left my card and exited. Ramona didn't attend our church; she'd simply asked for a visit from a Protestant minister. One of the nurses had called First Church with the request.

Ramona died soon after my visit. I would never have known, except the family saw my card and called the church asking for me to do her funeral. This would be my first official funeral. It would also be a bit more complicated than I would've wished. Religiously, Ramona had been the black sheep in her family. The Muscarellas were Italian Roman Catholics. As in every family member for five generations had been Roman Catholic. For reasons never fully explained to me, Ramona had left the Catholic faith to become a Baptist. She had also raised her kids as Baptists. Needless to say, her conversion to Protestantism created quite a stir for her extended family.

Ramona would be laid to rest at the Italian Gardens Cemetery. I would do the graveside service for her. I figured there might be a dozen people there. Over one hundred showed up. Not familiar with the Italian Gardens Cemetery, I'd never even been to that part of town. The old cemetery looked like something out of a Francis Ford Coppola movie. It was tucked on a one-acre lot, way back in a bad part of the city. There was an eight-foot stone wall around the entire property with big wrought iron gates in the front. To enter the cemetery, a visitor would first have to walk through a mausoleum full of marble-veneered crypts. Huge Italian marble and granite grave markers filled the cemetery, some ten or fifteen feet high. The place had to be at near capacity. It was so crowded, it resembled the back lot of a tombstone/grave marker store.

My first funeral. I was extremely nervous. So nervous, I didn't even realize I had accidentally attached my back suspenders to my boxer shorts instead of my suit pants. Subsequently, I ended up with a two-hour walking wedgie. Further complicating matters, a bad storm rolled in about an hour before the funeral. By the time I arrived, it was an absolute downpour, so we moved the graveside service into the mausoleum.

There I was, this punk Protestant intern doing my very first funeral, jammed into the middle of an overcrowded passageway full of wet, bereaved Roman Catholic Italian-Americans. I kept scanning the crowd looking for Al Pacino. The closed coffin sat in the middle of the mausoleum floor with the mourners tightly squeezed all around it. I stood at the head of the coffin, all eyes on me.

_No pressure_.

I opened my _Pastoral Ministry for Dummies_ handbook (the one Tom Applebee had given me) to the section entitled "Funerals by the Numbers." As I glanced down at the outline, I determined I should make a few comments before I read the prepared service. Such a profound moment under such extraordinary circumstances just demanded a little additional effort on my part.

Silently praying for wisdom, I started quietly. "I did not know Ramona the way you all knew Ramona. I visited with her only once, briefly, right before she died. However, I have since learned that she was a lady of great courage and faith. Though many of you may have disagreed with the choices she made in life, you still honor her here today with your presence. Life is like a grand revolving door. You have people entering it from one side, people exiting it from the other, and the rest of us are inside pushing it around. Ramona has made her break from this life leaving us with the message to keep pushing on."

Then, returning to the scripted service, I completed the funeral.

I decided funerals were not my favorite thing to do, but I was relieved I'd survived my first one. Several of the Muscarella family members came by afterward to shake my hand and thank me, some with tears in their eyes. It was the first time I had provided comfort to some hurting people. It felt good. Perhaps God _could_ use me in a ministry capacity.

But, first I had to get home and figure out what was wrong with my boxer shorts.

### The Intimacy Zone

Friday afternoon arrived, and I was running late. Erlene Markham had made a surprise drop-in visit to _The Closet_. Two hours later, I finally convinced her to head home in order to miss the afternoon rush-hour traffic from the city.

_Why they continue to let people her age and frame of mind drive is beyond me_. _I can just_ _see her looking through the steering wheel, squinting to see if the light is red or green. Yikes_.

Exhausted from her visit, I finally made it home to my apartment, but completely out of time to get ready for my date with Bonnie. W _hat to wear, what to wear_. _I sound like such a girl._ _Okay, think. Casa Verde doesn't allow jeans. I'll have to wear a jacket and tie_. I selected khaki Dockers, a white oxford cloth button-down shirt; a "warm and sensitive guy" pastel green tie, and a navy-blue sport coat. _If Bonnie bails on me, I can always hang around at the restaurant and park cars. I'm certainly dressed for the part._

Time to run down the pre-date Elmo checklist:

Hair just right—check

Teeth brushed—check

Antiperspirant—check

Dangling nose hair removed—check

_Okay, gotta go, gotta go, gotta go_. I estimated a twenty-five-minute drive from my place to Bonnie's apartment, and it was just now six o'clock. This gave me ample drive time to review the Do's-and-Don'ts of a First Date. Though not a comprehensive list, it's just some commonsense ideas I've gleaned from years of suffering through Singles seminars. Picking my favorite relationship concepts, I cobbled them into what I call _Elmo's First Date Strategy_ :

_1. Be a good listener_. Look at your date while she's talking. You must actually _hear_ what she's saying instead of formulating your next response.

_2. Never pass judgment on her opinions._ There will be time for give-and-take on subsequent dates— _if_ more actually occur.

_3. Don't run your mouth_. The Bible says a man of few words is considered wise. Let her form her initial opinion of you based on what you _don't_ say.

_4. It's not about me_. Ask questions about her, her work, her family, her faith. Show genuine interest in her responses. Compliment her clothes and appearance and mean it. Respond to her questions about you in a brief and humble manner. Keep the focus on her.

_5. Be a gentleman_. Open doors for her, chew with your mouth closed, and avoid vulgar language.

I could feel my confidence rising. Then, in stormed the requisite reality check. I remembered, after all, that I was Elmo Jenkins, a modern-day Barney Fife. Either James Dobson or Dr. Phil would need to come along to hold my hand, and give me play-by-play instructions. Since neither of them would be available on short notice, I decided to give Thurm a call. He could help; after all he had a girlfriend—the lovely Alise. I gave the auto-voice command, "Thurm the Worm," and my cell phone quickly dialed his number.

"Hello?" I could barely hear Thurm over the loud music in the background.

"Thurm, this is Elmo!" I yelled. "Turn off your tunes!"

"Okay, just a second." The music stopped. "Hey, Elmo. What's up?"

"I need some advice, buddy. I'm on my way over to pick up Bonnie for our date."

"The church librarian?" he chortled.

Before I could respond, I heard the loud screeching of tires as the car in front of me slammed on its brakes. Dropping the cell phone, I swerved to the left, just missing a Beamer in the lane next to me. _Whew!_

Retrieving the phone with my heart still racing, I gasped, "Thurm? Are you still there?"

"Elmo! Are you okay? What happened?"

I took a deep breath. ". . . A near accident— _waaaay_ too close for comfort!"

"You might wanna check out your shorts." With Thurm, the jokes never stopped.

"Listen, I need you to step out of character for a second and give me some serious advice," I said, almost pleading.

"Sure, Elmo. How can I help?" Before I could respond, he jumped back in. "Sorry, I need to put you on hold for a second. I have another incoming call. It's Alise."

Thurm had programmed his cell to play music for those on hold. As I waited, ABBA sang _"_ Fernando." _Thurm, lay off the cheesy music_.

"Elmo, whatcha need? I only have a minute or two. Alise is coming over, and I need to power-clean my cave."

"Thurm, I need a little pre-date help. What is it that women really want from a relationship?"

"One word: intimacy. Any time women are surveyed about the relationship stuff, intimacy _always_ comes in at #1."

"Okay . . . but what does intimacy actually mean in this context?"

"Elmo, I have no idea. Sorry, but I've gotta run. I'll ask Alise when she gets here." And he hung up.

Yeah, that helped a lot. Looks as if I'm on my own.

Intimacy. Right.

Just what I needed—a "fatal abstraction."

I knocked on Bonnie's door. She stepped out, and I said she looked nice. And she did. She then said I looked nice. And I did. On the drive over to Casa Verde, we made small talk about small things.

Making a snap decision, I let the valet park the car. It cost ten dollars, and I'd have to skip lunch one day next week to cover the extra expense. But first impressions are uber-important. I didn't want to come across as a tightwad (even though that's exactly what I am). Granted, it was a duplicitous move, and even though I consider myself a moral person, I do allow for the occasional small breach.

We were led to a cozy booth near the back of the Garden Room where we had complete privacy. As we settled in, our waitress appeared.

"Buenas noches," she said, smiling. "My name is Maria." She was definitely _not_ of Latin origin. "May I get you something to drink?"

"I'd like iced tea with lemon, please," Bonnie said without hesitation.

I'd recently read an article online about the dangers of ordering iced tea in public eating establishments. Evidently, most tea leaves are grown in third-world countries with little or no sanitary regulations. Subsequently, it's imperative that the water be brought to a boil to kill the many different types of bacteria residing in the tea leaves.

After summarizing this issue, I asked Maria, "Do you all boil the water when making your tea?"

"Oh yes," Maria answered with a naughty grin. "We practice _safe tea_ at Casa Verde."

"Okay then," I said mildly embarrassed. "I'll have the iced tea also." And we all shared a good laugh, which I considered a good sign. A few minutes later, Maria came back and took our food orders.

It occurred to me—we were about ready to enter _The Intimacy Zone._ I wasn't rattled, just understandably a little nervous. The obligatory greetings, small talk, and food orders had come and gone. Now it was crunch time. Everything would be won or lost during this segment of the evening. Historically, this is where I always fumbled the ball. Which explains why I, Elmo Jenkins, had never kissed a girl. I could never get past this unscripted "Q&A" section of a date without screwing up. I'd either offend my date or totally humiliate myself, taking down the entire male gender with me.

Taking a preemptive tack, I decided to prepare her for the worst. "Bonnie, are you familiar with the song "My Stupid Mouth" by John Mayer? You know, the one about a guy who ruins a dinner date by shooting off his mouth? Yeah, well, John called me before he wrote that song to make sure he got all the details correct."

Bonnie laughed boisterously. "Now, there's a new approach! What is this, some type of pre-conversation disclaimer? So now you can't be held liable for stupid comments, lousy opinions, or offensive remarks?"

"That about sums it up," I said sheepishly.

"Well. It's inventive." She smiled and then her expression turned sincere. "Elmo, just relax. We're both in our mid-twenties; we're past that place in life where we need to impress each other. Look, we have a lot in common—vocationally, academically, spiritually . . . just be yourself. That's the Elmo I want to spend time with tonight."

From where I was sitting, that little pep talk dripped with intimacy _._ I could really like this girl. A calm came over me unlike anything I've ever experienced on a date before.

Remembering _Elmo's First Date Strategy,_ I said, "Bonnie, tell me all about _you_ —about your family, your favorite things . . ." I knew she was a writer, so I added, "and tell me about those books you want to write." Then I settled in and worked hard at being a good listener.

The rest of the dinner flew by. We talked about everything. And we laughed and laughed. I kept my foot planted firmly under the table and out of my mouth. Overall, we had a great time.

As the evening concluded and I walked Bonnie up the path to her apartment, I started to get the old nervous stomach again. The end of a first date has to be one of the most awkward moments ever created. Especially for me, since I've never successfully navigated one. The normal guy is always thinking, _Should I try to kiss her goodnight?_ The normal girl is thinking either, _I hope he kisses me goodnight_ , or _I hope he doesn't try to kiss me goodnight!_

However, Bonnie was not your normal girl. In fact, I found her extraordinary.

When we arrived at her door, I was totally clueless. So I just smiled and said, "Bonnie, thanks for—"

Before I could finish, she leaned in and kissed me. Just for a moment, nothing too passionate, but I know I felt my heart flicker. When she pulled back, all I could muster was, "Thank you." As far as words were concerned, I was done for the evening.

"Elmo, I had a really nice time tonight. Please, let's do it again?" She smiled, then turned and disappeared into her apartment.

I lingered there for an extra moment or two before waltzing back to my car still thinking about her kiss.

Man . . . _too_ _cool._

### The Advisor

My Monday morning glee morphed into a frown. I had just opened my email inbox to find 47 messages. After deleting the spam, I had only one legitimate message left, and it wasn't from Bonnie. It came from Tom Applebee:

Dear First Church Staff member,

Just a reminder about our annual Primary Staff Retreat this Thursday and Friday. We will be leaving by church vans from the west porte cochere at 10:00 a.m. One of the main goals of our retreat is team building, so I recommend that all staff members ride in the vans. The retreat will be held at the Golden Stallion Stables and Spa on Highway 320 near Spencer Springs. Horseback riding will be available for those interested. However, Bob Stevens has informed me that our insurance carrier strongly discourages it. Pack light.

Here is a list of those confirmed going and the areas of ministry they represent:

Tom Applebee: Chief of Staff

Fran Bruker: Pastor's Administrative Assistant

Harry Simpkins: Music Ministry

Fred Snooker: Senior Adult Ministry

Bob Stevens: Administrator

Bernard Coggins: Pastoral Care

Louis Estrada: Singles Ministry

Raze Hankins: Minister to Married Adults

Doreen McGinty: Children's Ministry

Thurm Wilson: Youth Ministry

Johnny Rochelle: Recreation Ministry

and Elmo Jenkins: Church Intern

*Dr. Jorgensen will be joining us Thursday evening.

Sincerely,

Tom Applebee

There I was at the bottom of the list, but I took comfort in the "and" before my name. Have you ever noticed in movie credits, they always give the main star top billing, but the super-cool, better-known, and more respected actor gets the last spot? And there's always an "and" before his or her name?

_. . . and Anthony Hopkins_

_. . . and Meryl Streep_

Well, that was me on this list. At least, that's the way I chose to interpret it. Hey, it could have been worse. They could have asked me to carry everyone's bags.

My intercom beeped and Miss Figghie crackled, "Elmo, are you there?"

"Yes, Adrianne." (I tried to stay away from the whole Miss Figghie thing.) "I'm here."

"Pastor Applebee asked me to remind you that he would like you to give a short report to the staff at the retreat on Friday morning. Nothing heavy, just highlight some of the things you've learned and any suggestions you might have. He also wants you to help with the luggage."

"Got it. Thanks. I'll be ready."

The intercom went silent. I'm convinced God has a great sense of humor. He sure knows how to cook up the humble pie. To be honest, I need a piece of it on a regular basis just for perspective.

Little did I know this staff retreat would be a full dessert tray.

Once a week, I made a quick visit to the seminary to meet briefly with my faculty advisor and bring him up to date on my internship. Due to unfortunate luck or some other bad karma, Dr. Auguste De Villa was assigned as my advisor. Dr. De Villa had been at Harvest Morgan Seminary _way_ too long. He chaired the Psychology Department and still taught several courses, but in my opinion, he had succumbed to senility many years ago. Random topics spontaneously sprang to life from somewhere deep down in his demented mind, resulting in obscure and often bizarre lectures. Taking one of his courses was a true adventure. Regardless of the topic, each class turned into a, shall we say, _Detour du Jour_. Still, he had no trouble filling his courses each semester as everyone knew he gave A's to all his students. Even the noblest of seminarians found it too tempting to pass up such an easy GPA boost.

The schedule called for me to meet with Dr. De Villa for fifteen minutes every Monday afternoon from 3:30 to 3:45. Often, he just didn't show up, but as long as I signed in, I'd fulfilled my requirement. Of course, the weeks he went _missing in action_ were the best.

"Dr. DV, you're here," I said, sincerely surprised as I sat in the only other chair in his office.

"Well, Mr. Jenkins," he grunted, "I suppose that depends on what you mean by 'here.'" He then cleared the phlegm from his throat and spit into his wastebasket.

Deciding to ignore his psycho-babble, I cut to the chase. "Dr. DV, my internship at First Church is going well. I'm getting lots of hands-on ministry assignments and—"

"I know, I know," he interrupted. "The rich and famous are treating you well—blah, blah, blah. I need you to do a favor for me, Jenkins. I owe old man Snooker $100 from a bet I lost to him years ago. It concerned a land deal I thought Buster Sapp was involved in. Well, it's a long story, and I don't feel like telling it. Anyway, I've finally decided to pay up. That's a long story too, and I don't feel like telling it either." He handed me an unsealed envelope with a hundred-dollar bill inside. "You tell Snooker that now we're even, and I don't want to hear any more of his whining.

"But Dr. DV, I'm not sure—"

"Jenkins, just deliver the dang envelope, and take some advice from your advisor. Don't get sucked into all the _pomp and circumstance_ of First Church. Watch your back, watch your wallet, and watch who you trust." He paused, glanced at his watch, took a deep breath, and barked, "I'm late for my next class." Then Dr. Auguste De Villa, esteemed head of the Psychology Department of the prestigious Harvest Morgan Seminary, got up and stormed out of his own office, leaving me sitting in a cloud of Freudian dust.

I elected not to tell him his fly was open.

Driving back to First Church, I couldn't help but wonder what in the world that was all about. I would have to ask Harvest Morgan alumni Thurm Wilson if he had any insight into the Dr. DV vs. Fred Snooker issue. Unfortunately, _The Envelope_ would have to stay in my possession until Wednesday morning, since Fred Snooker wouldn't be in his office until then.

My cell phone rang. It was Bonnie. _Yes!_

"Hello?" I answered, pretending not to know who it was.

"Elmo, this is Bonnie. I just wanted to call and say thanks for a great time Friday night."

"I'm glad you called. I've been thinking about you a lot. Through sheer coincidence, John Mayer is in town this Friday night for a concert. I already asked Erlene Markham to go with me, but she turned me down. What do you say?"

"Well, I can't promise you the same quality of jokes Erlene would have brought to the date, but I'd love to be her replacement."

_Yes!_ "I've got that dumb staff retreat on Thursday and Friday. Which means I'll be cutting it close to get back on time. I'll buy the tickets and let you keep them in case we run late. Is that okay?"

"No problem, Elmo. I'll enjoy the concert—with or without you."

"Thanks. I think? I'll just do whatever it takes to get back, even if I have to pick up and throw the slow moving Fran Bruker into the van so we can vamoose on time." I paused. "Wait, did you hear horses rearing?"

"What?"

"Never mind. I'll see you at staff meeting on Wednesday, okay?"

"Will do. Bye, Elmo."

On Wednesday morning before the staff meeting, I stopped by Fred Snooker's office. Fred worked part-time, keeping office hours only Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings. I needed to drop off _The Envelope_ from Dr. DV, and I also wanted to ask him about the gum wrapper note I'd found in my office.

Fred's office was just a couple of turns down the second-floor hall from _The Closet_. During office hours, he simply left his office door wide open. Many of the First Church senior adults spent several days a week doing volunteer work at the church. They stuffed the bulletins with ministry inserts or helped count the tithes and offerings. Some helped in the kitchen preparing the Wednesday evening family supper. Others sorted bags of donated clothes for the ministry distribution center. These senior souls were in and out of Fred's office continuously. Finding him alone would be rare, but I really wanted some privacy for my questions.

I walked down the hall to his doorway. Sure enough, _The Three Widows_ as they were known were ensconced in Fred's office, but he wasn't there.

Emily, Beatrice, and Fanny had all been widows for quite some time. I would guess they were all in their late seventies or early eighties. Though they weren't related, they functioned almost like triplets. They lived together; they dressed alike; they finished each other's sentences, and to the older single men in the church, they were a virtual three-headed terror—and not above stalking. An unfortunate fact of life for Fred, himself a widower.

"Ladies," I said, greeting them with a big smile. "If it's not my favorite troika of warm lovin'. How about a hug?"

"Well, lookie there," Fanny said, smiling.

"It's Ellington!" Beatrice squealed, getting up from her seat.

"He's all mine, girls, I claim him first!" insisted Emily.

"Easy girls, there's enough Elmo for all three of you." We shared a group hug. "Tell me ladies, where's Pastor Snooker this morning?"

Fanny jumped right in. "Well, he excused himself for a trip to the restroom. He always leaves for the restroom about the time we get here."

"It's his morning constitutional," quipped Emily.

"I think he's incontinent," added Beatrice. "Why else would he be running off to the bathroom so often? My second husband Earl was incontinent. What a mess, and oh my goodness, the smell—"

"Pastor Snooker doesn't smell!" Fancy snapped.

"That's 'cuz he goes to the restroom so much," Emily insisted.

I knew this little discussion could go on forever. I also knew Fred was hiding in the restroom waiting for _The Three Widows_ to wander off to some other location in the building.

I decided to expedite the situation. "Ladies, don't tell anyone, but before I came up here, I left a box of three dozen Krispy Kreme donuts on the table in the downstairs boardroom. If you hurry, you can snatch one before the staff meeting starts. If anyone asks, just tell them that Elmo-the-Great said it was okay for each of you to have one."

"You don't—"

"Have to—"

"Ask us twice!" answered Emily, Beatrice, and Fanny in that order. They scurried out the door, still bickering down the hall about Fred Snooker's bathroom habits.

I stepped around the corner and stuck my head into the Men's' restroom. "Pastor Snooker, _The Three Widows_ have left the building."

A stall door opened immediately and out stepped Fred Snooker closing his Daytimer. "Good morning, Elmo. Are you sure they're gone?"

"Yes sir, I directed them downstairs for a free donut." I held open the restroom door for Fred, and we walked back to his office.

"Sweet ladies, but . . ." he paused. "Thanks for running interference."

"Pastor, may I have a few minutes of your valuable time?"

"Remember, I'm actually retired," he grinned. "You can have as much time as you want."

"Just a couple of things. This won't take long."

Fred was counting on this interim senior minister gig to be short term. After he was pressed back into action following the death of his predecessor Hugo Withers, he didn't even make any changes to Hugo's office. He just moved in, using Hugo's chair, Hugo's desk, even a coffee cup with "Hugo" on the side. We sat in two vinyl chairs at a round table in a corner of the office. Opening my wallet, I handed him the gum wrapper I discovered in _The Closet_. Dated May 17, 1959, it included a handwritten message:

" _I told you that is what he would do. You should have taken my advice. Now you'll have the devil to pay!" — T.B.T._

Fred spread open the wrapper and read the message. "Well, now there's a find. Where did you get this?"

"It was sticking out from behind one of the shelves in my closet office. I noticed it when the sun coming through the window reflected off the wrapper and caught my eye. Any ideas?"

"Oh, it's a puzzle piece. Looks authentic. It's part of _The Black Toe Enigma_."

"The what?"

" _The Black Toe Enigma._ It's part of the folklore here at First Church going back almost 100 years. I'm actually the resident keeper-of-the-lore. It's kind of a long and detailed story, which I'm more than happy to share with you. Unfortunately, it will require more time than we have this morning. According to my watch, staff meeting starts in about fifteen minutes. Tell you what. Let me keep this wrapper, and I'll add it to a special album I've helped compile with all the bits and pieces of _The Black Toe Enigma_. When we have more time, I'll fill you in on all of the known details and show you the TBT album.

"That would be great. Just let me know when." I stood up to leave.

"See you at the staff meeting, Elmo. I need one more stop in the restroom. I'm borderline incontinent, and I use a preemptive strategy before any long meetings.

"Oh, one more thing," I added quickly. "Dr. De Villa asked me to give you this." I handed him _The Envelope_. "He said something about an old wager."

He took the envelope, opened it and pulled out the hundred-dollar bill. "Well, son of a—" He caught himself. "That sorry old goat. He's owed me this money for over forty years. The next time you see him tell him thanks for me. And kick him in the—" He caught himself again. "Just tell him thanks. I'll do the kicking myself." He headed down the hall toward the restroom whistling like a man who'd just won the lottery.

### The Golden Stallion

Thursday arrived. At 10:00 a.m. sharp, we loaded up in two of the sleek First Church vans.

Most churches have a few donated secondhand vans or buses with the bare minimum of amenities necessary to transport people. Not First Church. Their fleet included four regular minivans and four twelve-passenger vans, all fully loaded with the latest available accessories. They also had two full-size Greyhound-style passenger buses. All the vehicles were custom-painted the same color and had matching interiors. Each year, the oldest two vehicles in the fleet were replaced with new models. The ten First Church vehicles were named after the disciples in the Bible (excluding Judas the Betrayer and Thomas the Doubter, of course).

I rode in _Bartholomew_ on this cool fall morning. I'd made a conscious decision not to ride in the _John_. It just sounded too much like a _porta-potty_ on wheels. Bob Stevens drove _Bartholomew_ with Fran Bruker riding shotgun. Thurm and I were in the far back, and Harry Simpkins, the minister of music, rode on the middle bench seat. Harry was a sincere man of the cloth, though cut from a different piece of fabric than most ministers.

Everyone knew at least one Harry Simpkins story. Once, at the annual church picnic at Turnbill Lake, Harry put on a spectacle of a show. Evidently, he fashioned himself quite the expert water skier. So with hundreds of the First Church members picnicking on the beach, Harry wanted to show off his skiing prowess. He'd made arrangements with the deacon driving the boat for a big finish. On the last pass, the deacon was supposed to bring the boat in close to the shore. Harry would let go of the rope and ski right up on the sandy beach to thunderous applause from the adoring church crowd.

When the time came for the big ending and Harry was to let go of the rope, the plan went awry. Fearing the lake was becoming too shallow for his boat, the deacon quickly accelerated toward deeper water. Harry was whipped forward way too fast, hitting the beach at rocket speed. To the delight, then horror, of the hundreds watching, Harry cartwheeled head over foot five or six times before landing on top of the Chairman of the Deacons' sunbathing teenage daughter. She escaped with only disturbed tan lines, but Harry ended up with a broken leg and a concussion for his showboating efforts.

Harry turned toward us. "Hey, either of you guys snore? The rooms at this place sleep three, so we're supposed to buddy-up with two other staff members for the night. Every year on this retreat I get stuck with Stevens and Snooker, and they battle all night long to see who snores the loudest."

"As far as I know, I don't snore. How about you, Thurm?

"Not me," Thurm said. "I've never been a snorer."

"Then it's settled. We'll be the no-snoring room tonight." Then Harry continued, loud enough to make sure Bob Stevens could hear him up front. "That's right. We'll be sleeping like babies tonight in the _No-Snore_ _Zone_."

I could see Bob's eyes in the rearview mirror as they narrowed. Most of the other staff members just tolerated Harry, but for some inexplicable reason, Dr. Jorgensen loved the man. If not for this crucial fact, Harry would've been gone a long time ago.

"Hey, Harry," Thurm hollered over the noise of the van. "Tell Elmo about the time you forgot to bring your song lyrics to that wedding for your solo."

Harry threw his head back and laughed like a wild animal. His eyes grew big and animated. The man had the world's largest mouth. I'd seen him put a whole unpeeled orange in his mouth with room to spare.

He reached over the seat and slapped my leg. "Elmo, you wouldn't have believed it unless you'd been there. See, when I sing solos for weddings, my assistant Carlene places the selected sheet music in a designated blue _Weddings_ folder for me. When I arrive at the church for the wedding, I simply swing by my office, pick up the folder on my desk, then take my position on the platform and wait for my spot in the program to sing. I've sung all these wedding songs so many times I know the melodies by heart. I just need the lyrics, particularly for those second and third verses.

"Well, at this wedding last year—" Harry paused to keep from laughing, "At this wedding, I'm standing at my position, and it's my turn to sing; the music starts, I open the file folder, and voila—no sheet music! I actually said 'uh oh' out loud!" Harry then paused for dramatic effect.

Impatiently, I asked, "Well, what did you do?" I glanced at Thurm, who had one of those pre-laugh smiles on his face.

"Elmo, I've been doing this a long time, so I decided just to wing it. There was no problem through the first verse and chorus, but from that point on, I just made up the words as I went along, faking it all the way until I finished the song like a pro. The wedding party was so caught up in the event, they didn't even realize anything was amiss. I thought I'd fooled everyone until one of my choir members approached me at the wedding reception. With a wry smile, she said, "I never realized that song had a verse about tadpoles, butterflies, and sand in your eyes."

His eyes widened even more. "They played a tape of that performance at the annual choir banquet, and people literally fell out of their chairs laughing."

We all shared a good laugh. Harry even had tears in his eyes. I admit it was funny and wished I'd been there to hear it live. Harry's life was a continuous string of outrageous episodes like that, one right after another. I think Dr. Jorgensen kept him around just for comic relief. Harry turned his attention to the front of the van to spend some quality time bothering Fran and Bob.

I dialed down my voice so only Thurm could hear me. "So tell me, what's the deal between Fred Snooker and Dr. De Villa?"

"Oh, that goes way back, and it's really kind of ugly. How'd you find out about it?" Thurm asked quietly.

"Dr. DV is my faculty advisor for the First Church internship."

"Ooh, that's unfortunate." Thurm frowned. "Whose dog did you run over to earn _that_ privilege?"

"It's actually turned out to be a blessing because he's rarely there for our appointments. Most weeks, I'm in and out in less than a minute. I'm there just long enough to wink at Bess, his graduate assistant, and sign in."

Thurm smiled. "You know she's—"

"Whatever it is I don't want to know," I interrupted, holding my hand up. "Just fill me in on the Snooker/De Villa _Conflict of the Titans_.

"Okay, but I'm only giving you the short version since we're almost to the retreat center. Plus the long version is just plain boring."

"Fine with me," I said, sliding down in the seat and propping my knees up on the back of the seat in front of me.

Thurm turned sideways to face me and started the grand tale. "Fred and Augie go way back, maybe even as far as high school. They were both very bright and competed for everything along the way. If Fred was Student Council President, then Augie was Captain of the Debate Team. If Augie dated the head cheerleader, then Fred dated the homecoming queen. They both graduated from Cornell, then both attended Harvest Morgan Seminary. They weren't really friends, but it was a good-natured competition, and everyone played fair and by the rules.

"Sometime during the '60s, the screws started loosening a bit in Dr. DV's brain. It was subtle and almost no one noticed, but Fred had spent his entire adult life trying to best the man, and he knew something wasn't right. Fred was the Associate Pastor at First Church at the time and also on the Board of Trustees at Harvest Morgan. When the head of the Theology Department at the seminary retired, the board was considering Dr. DV for the position. Augie was brilliant, and this was the job he coveted. He had the requisite tenure, academic credentials, national reputation, and respect of the rest of the faculty. He was a shoe-in, but Fred intervened and convinced the board that Augie was _not_ the right person. Fred suspected Augie might be in the beginning stages of something like Alzheimer's, but he chose not to mention his suspicions to the board. Instead, he passionately argued for 'new blood from outside the seminary' to reinvigorate the program, and he succeeded in persuading the rest of the trustees.

"Fred's actions came out of kindness. He didn't want to embarrass Augie by questioning his mental stability in front of the board. But Dr. DV felt as though he'd been denied his dream job by the jealous machinations of his old rival Fred Snooker. The _Great Feud_ had begun.

"Several years later, Fred served as Interim Pastor at First Church. He was also a candidate for the permanent position. Dr. DV worked the phones tirelessly, calling in all his markers to kill any chance Fred had to ever be Senior Pastor. There's been bad blood both ways ever since."

Thurm sighed. "And that's just the short version. They haven't spoken directly to each other for twenty or thirty years."

I sat up in my seat. "Let me get this straight. You have a tenured department head at one of the most highly esteemed seminaries in the country, and you have the second-ranking pastor at one of the most renowned churches in the country, and these guys have refused to speak to each other for almost thirty years?"

"That's the facts," Thurm said shaking his head. "And both are brilliant Bible scholars."

"How do you know all this stuff?"

"Tom Applebee gave me the long, boring version last year when we were on a three-hour flight to California."

An exclusive retreat getaway, the _Golden Stallion Stables and Spa_ catered to the privileged few. Privately owned by a dozen of the more _well-heeled_ individuals from our state, its board was chaired by Smitty Fitzsimons, who served as the driving force behind the whole development. Famous for its riding stables, the _Golden Stallion_ served as home to a former Kentucky Derby winner and several other championship horses. Also available on the prestigious grounds—first class tennis facilities, twenty-seven holes of manicured Jack Nicklaus designed golf, a skeet shooting range, and of course, a full-service spa. The bylaws required all buildings, including the Main Lodge, support structures, and any private cabins built by the club members, to be of luxury log cabin design. The entire property had a rustic ambience to it, though once inside the Main Lodge it felt anything _but_ rustic. Think Daniel Boone meets Dubai.

Club membership was limited to three hundred families, but the waiting list numbered in the thousands. Many of the members had built cabins around the property for weekend getaways and summer vacations. The word _cabin_ doesn't really do justice as a description for these part-time domains. Some of these log homes were seven or eight thousand square feet in size. Many had huge floor-to-ceiling windows spanning two stories, overlooking the golf course with spectacular panoramic views. Most included separate garages housing up to half-a-dozen vehicles. These were big money, old money, new money, family money, and foreign money people; the operative word here— _money_. And lots of it.

And each year, the primary staff of First Church held their annual staff retreat at the _Golden Stallion_. I thought it rather ironic that the theme for this year's staff retreat was _Sacrifice._

Harry, Thurm, and I were assigned to a spacious and nicely appointed room in what I would call a _neo-woodsman_ motif. No mounted animal heads on the walls, but a weekend hunter would feel right at home. (A mere assumption on my part since I'd never hunted or fired a gun.) The room had only two beds; a full-size bed that matched the other furniture and a single Murphy bed that pulled down from the wall. Harry quickly threw his bag on the full-size bed even as Thurm pulled down the Murphy.

As the reality of the situation slowly sank in, Harry chuckled. "Jenkins, it's a good thing you don't snore since we're gonna be sleeping cheek to cheek." He stepped into the bathroom closing the door behind him.

"Well, at least one of us will be getting some sleep," Thurm said with a smirk.

I winced. "Oh, you're good, Thurm. You sized up the bed dilemma the minute we walked in and staked your claim to secure the best option."

He smiled. "I am fast on my feet, but this time I merely had the advantage of remembering last year's retreat. I'm sure you'll do fine. After all, remember Harry said he doesn't snore."

"Yeah, but a full-size bed for two adult men? That's just wrong."

"Elmo, just give Harry a kiss on the cheek before we turn in, and I guarantee, he'll stay on his side of the bed all night long." Thurm laughed at his own retelling of that tired old joke, then headed back to the lobby.

Whoever invented the full-size bed was a moron. When two adults sleep in a full-size bed, they're basically shoulder-to-shoulder, hip-to-hip. There's no room to turn over, so you have to more or less levitate and spin. Otherwise, you either land on top of the other person or fall on the floor.

I wasn't looking forward to the experience one bit. This had nightmare written all over it.

We had free time all afternoon, so Thurm and I played some tennis. I neglected to warn Thurm ahead of time that I've been banned from playing tennis in forty-five states and Puerto Rico; mostly for my own safety. Meaning, I dutifully chased around his "winners" for an hour while he scurried after my "losers." But he was a good sport about my lack of tennis acumen. I only heard him laugh out loud a half-dozen times or so.

That evening's dinner was impressive. We sat at tables covered in starched white linen, adorned with expensive European china, Waterford crystal, and real silver cutlery. I shared a table with Tom Applebee, Fran Bruker, and Doreen McGinty, the Children's' Ministry Director. We were given two entrée options: prime rib or spring pheasant. I chose the prime rib which arrived as a thick slice, seasoned and cooked to perfection. Each bite sent my taste buds on a two-week all-expense paid trip to some far-off land. This fine piece of beef was accompanied on my plate by new potatoes marinated in some type of olive oil concoction, then lightly broiled and sprinkled with a spicy Cajun seasoning. Rounding out this exquisite course, fresh steamed kale grown organically right there on the grounds in the Lodge's own garden. Waiters were all about attending to our every dining need. Unaccustomed to this type of attention, I felt a bit pampered, almost embarrassed by all the fuss.

"Well, Elmo," Tom said, breaking the silence, "are you enjoying our staff retreat so far?"

I took two or three more good chews on the beef in my mouth and washed it down with some very sweet iced tea. "Yes, I am. This is one unbelievable facility."

"Yes, it is," he agreed. "When Smitty approached me about having our staff retreat here each year, at first I was hesitant."

"Because of the wrong impression it might give to the First Church membership?" I asked sincerely, though naively.

"Oh no," he chuckled. "I hesitated because of the cost. This elegant meal we're all enjoying is about $75 a plate. And you don't want to know what the accommodations run."

"What changed your mind?"

"That's easy." He laughed again. "Smitty decided to pick up the tab, at no cost to the church budget. A tax write-off for either him or the _Golden Stallion_ , I suppose. Bob worked out all the details."

"That's amazing." I reached for another croissant.

Tom smiled at Fran and Doreen. "It's a well-deserved perk for our primary staff members. These folks work long, hard weeks, often with unreliable volunteers, under challenging conditions, and usually with little or no appreciation. Most lay people have no idea how hard it is being a church staff member."

"I've learned that much already," I said confirming his statement. "I even heard a church member ask Thurm the other day what he did for a living during the week. Never mind that the poor guy usually works six days a week, burning the candle at both ends just trying to keep up with the hundreds of teenagers in this church."

"You're right, Elmo. I've always said church staff work isn't for slackers, cowards, or wimps." Both Fran and Doreen nodded their heads in agreement. Tom waved the dessert cart over to our table.

The others selected cheesecake artistically drizzled with raspberry sauce and a sprinkling of dark-chocolate shavings. I topped off my dinner with a smooth piece of French silk pie, and as Bob Stevens would say, a cup of snooty coffee.

After dinner, we were informed that Dr Jorgensen was running late, so our evening session was scrapped. We would start in the morning and incorporate the missed agenda items into the morning's meetings. This worked out great for me on two levels. First, I'd get to spend some time that evening getting to know the other staff members a little better. And second, much to my delight, due to the schedule change my Friday morning presentation to the group was cancelled. Momentarily forgetting about my lousy sleeping arrangements, I thought— _now I can get a good night's rest_. I was jarred back to reality by Harry Simpkins's loud howling across the room over something Lois Estrada said.

Most of us just hung around in the great room for several hours sitting in the cushy chairs and telling ministry anecdotes. We had a good time. Just after 9:00 p.m., I did notice the 50-and-older set start slipping away to their rooms. By 9:15, just us younger folks remained along with Tom and Harry. I also knew from experience that these "early to bed" senior adults would be up at the crack of dawn ready to change the world. They'd be making all kinds of racket while the younger generation was trying to sleep in until the last possible minute.

At about 10:00, Tom stood up, stretched, and announced it was bedtime. Lights out in thirty minutes. We all dutifully headed toward our rooms. Harry proudly reminded everyone he was sleeping in the _No-Snore Zone_ this year. Fortunately, Bob Stevens and Fred Snooker had already retired for the night. Sure enough, you could hear them cranking out the hits as we walked by their room.

This led Harry to do a little victory dance as he turned into our doorway. "What did I tell you? The Righteous Brothers are already in there performing their double live album." He let out a boisterous laugh as he grabbed his toilet kit and disappeared into the bathroom.

Thurm and I were lying on our beds and talking when Harry padded back into the room in his stylish silk maroon pajamas with matching eyeshade pushed up on his forehead. For some reason, he reminded me of Ernest P. Worrell. Maybe it was the dim lighting in the room. I was going to spend an entire night in a full-size bed with this guy. An intense shiver shot up my spine. Jumping off the bed, I settled into the one chair in the room.

Harry pulled back the covers and climbed in. He fluffed his pillow then eased onto his back, simultaneously pulling the eyeshade down over his eyes. "Now remember boys, no snoring."

"Good night, Harry," I said, smiling at Thurm.

Thurm and I lowered our voices and continued our conversation. In a few moments, Harry let out a sigh and began breathing deeply.

A minute later he began to snore. At first quietly, but then he floored the pedal, and the rafters began to shake.

It was going to be a long night.

### The Black Toe Enigma

I arose from bed early. Notice I did not say I _awoke_ early. In order to wake up you have to have been asleep. Harry was indeed a master snorer, but that wasn't the problem. I came prepared for that possibility because I always carry foam earplugs when I travel.

I'm from a large family of snorers. Both my parents were robust snorers, and after forty years of marriage, they would actually harmonize as they sawed logs side-by-side in—that's right—a full-size bed. Neither my siblings nor I ever got any sleep on family vacations. My parents would then have the gall to wonder why we were always cranky on those long car rides.

No, I was ready for Harry's snoring. After washing up for the night, I simply jammed in my earplugs and settled in for what I hoped would be a good night's sleep. All went according to plan, and I had just entered into that fuzzy pre-sleep transition zone when—WHAM! Harry kicked me right above my left ankle! It jolted me wide awake, though at first I didn't remember where I was since the room was totally dark. Had there been an emergency like a fire or something? I jerked out my earplugs only to find everything calm and quiet. Except for Harry's snoring, of course.

_Man, that was weird_. I lay back down, replacing my trusty earplugs. Again I quieted my thoughts and was about to fall asleep when—WHAM! Harry kicked me again! _Surely he's not playing some type of sophomoric prank,_ I pondered. I checked. He was still sound asleep.

This happened numerous times during the night at random intervals. I would get thirty or forty-five minutes of sleep, then Harry would kick me through the uprights for yet another three points. I never quite made it to stage five REM sleep.

So when Thurm discovered my disheveled carcass sitting at the breakfast nook the next morning, he found me borderline catatonic.

"Wow, you should consider a transfusion, or maybe an adrenaline shot," he quipped.

"Well, did you get any sleep?" I moved only the minimal facial muscles necessary to form words.

"Not really. Between Harry's snoring and your periodic yelps, I didn't sleep much at all. What was that all about?"

"Harry kept kicking me. And I mean all night long." I yawned.

Thurm smiled. "Restless Leg Syndrome."

"Excuse me?"

"Restless Leg Syndrome," he repeated. "Harry must have RLS."

"You're making that up. You know I'm exhausted, and you think in my weakened, delusional state of mind I'm going to fall for one of your whoppers."

"Not this time, Elmo. This is legit," Thurm insisted. "My grandfather had it. I swear on his humble grave. It usually kicks in at night—so to speak—and people with Restless Leg Syndrome have no control over it. So don't take Harry's kicks personal."

"I just wish I'd known ahead of time. Do you think Harry even knows?"

"He's been married for twenty-five years to the same lady, sleeping in the same bed. He knows." Thurm answered.

"Yeah. I bet she's an amputee by now," I wondered. "Or maybe she wears shin guards under her pajamas."

Even though I was exhausted, the whole thing struck me as quite funny. I took a sip of strong black coffee and shook my head in an attempt to wake up. "Hey Thurm, you got a minute?"

"Sure, what is it?" He pulled up a chair to the table.

I took another hit of coffee then started. "Since I never really made it to a deep sleep last night, I did a lot of dreaming. Most of it's long gone, but I do remember the last dream I had before I got kicked the final time and just got up. Are you any good at interpreting dreams?"

Thurm leaned back and grabbed a pastry from the counter. "I'm no Daniel, but I'll take a stab at it. Tell me about your dream."

"Okay. You know the outside basketball court up on the roof of the First Church Education Building?

"Sure." Thurm nodded his head. "I play in an intramural men's league up there each spring."

"In my dream, I was up on that roof, and there was some sort of children's activity going on—VBS or something. Hundreds of kids were playing on that basketball court with balls and toys and such. And for some reason, there was a big hole in the retaining wall that surrounds the roof to keep people from falling off to the street below."

Thurm interrupted. "Let me get this straight. You and a bunch of children are up playing on the roof of the Education Building, and there's a hole in the retaining wall?"

"Yes."

"Well, what did you do?"

"I wasn't sure what to do. No other adults were around, but there were hundreds of kids running every which way."

Thurm leaned forward in his chair. "What happened next?

"I had to do something fast, or some kid was going to run through the hole and plummet six floors to his death. So I just stepped in front of the hole and held out my arms, hoping I would catch them if they ran toward the hole, to save them from falling." I paused, reliving the scene in my mind. "What do you think it means?"

A serious, contemplative look covered Thurm's face as he just sat there quietly for a moment. Then he finally stood up. "I have no idea what your dream means, Elmo. But one thing I can tell you for sure. It'll never be made into a movie."

"What does that mean?"

"You know," Thurm paused. "Think Holden Caulfield."

Huh? I was just too tired to get it.

"If I were you, I'd take a shower before our first session," he suggested over his shoulder as he headed back to our room. "And don't tell anyone else about your dreams."

Loitering in the Great Room, engaged in assorted casual conversations, our group waited for the morning session to begin. In strode Smitty Fitzsimons and Dr. Jorgensen. Horace had spent the night over at Smitty's palatial cabin, which overlooked the 18th green. No full-size bed for Dr. J. No incessant Harry Simpkins's leg kicks. He looked fresh—the fresh look of a man who'd had a wonderful, uninterrupted night's sleep. But I wasn't bitter. Just tired. Horace and Smitty worked the room shaking hands and doling out morning greetings to everyone.

When they got to me, Dr. Jorgensen put his arm around my shoulders. "Smitty, I'm not sure you've been formally introduced to Elmo Jenkins, our current intern. Elmo here is doing a fine job for us. He even covered my tail when I missed the graveside service for Deacon Phillips." He snickered, "He and Thurman had to do the service dressed casually in _golf shirts_."

"Golf shirts—my kind of guy!" Smitty grinned from ear to ear. "Oh, I remember this young man. He's the one who ate all of the hors d'oeuvres at our Open House last April. I believe you came with my niece Dolly?" he recalled while shaking my hand.

I smiled. "Yes, sir. That's correct. Quite the soirée, as I recall. That's where I met Tom Applebee, which led to my internship at First Church, for which I am very grateful."

"Elmo," Dr Jorgensen said, relaxing his grip on my shoulders. "Smitty here plays an important role not only in the life of our church, but also in the life of our city. I believe he has his finger in just about everything on this end of the state. He's a good guy to get to know."

"Well, nice seeing you again, Mr. Fitzsimons," I said, shaking his hand again. "And thank you for having us here at your beautiful retreat center for a few days. It's a magnificent place."

"You're more than welcome, Elmo. And I hope to see you again next spring at our annual Open House. I'm inviting you now—with or without that rascal niece of mine."

"Wonderful," I said, as they moved on to the next staff member. Of course, I had absolutely no intention of attending that chalky party again. And forget Dolly. I had Bonnie on my mind these days. I made a mental note to call her at the lunch break.

We all settled into our proper places as Tom Applebee started things off with a brief prayer. I have a habit of keeping my eyes open during prayers at meetings and services. It's amazing the things that quietly take place while someone is praying. Today was no exception. While Tom prayed for a productive session, Smitty and Horace whispered back and forth, pointing at Bernard Coggins. Since these were the two most powerful men at First Church, and Bernard was sitting just to my left, I decided I'd better shut my eyes or they might start pointing at me. When Tom concluded his prayer and we all opened our eyes, Smitty was long gone _._

I wonder what that was all about.

Smitty Fitzsimons was a deacon at First Church, but he was not and never had been Chairman of the Deacons. Unlike most churches, the Chairman of the Deacons at First Church was mostly a ceremonial office. The real power was to be found in the heads of the different church committees. Smitty chaired two of the most important ones—the Personnel Committee and the Property Committee. Whoever coined the phrase, _"Money brings power and influence,"_ surely had Smitty Fitzsimons in mind. Smitty could be the quintessential poster child for that phrase. I had a sneaky feeling whatever had just transpired during Tom's opening prayer didn't forebode well for ol' Bernard Coggins.

In our first session, Dr. Jorgensen gave us the annual State of the Church speech. We learned that giving was up 11% over last year, and that the church now had just over 13,000 members. _With about 10,000 of those people nowhere to be found,_ I thought to myself. There is some truth to the supposition that it's much harder to get your name _removed_ from a church membership roll than it would be to stroll freely into the Oval Office.

Here I was fighting my cynicism again as Dr. Jorgensen shared the numbers of souls saved and baptized. But all I was hearing was _yada, yada, yada_. How had I become so calloused to the greater purposes of God? Sure, First Church was old school, using old school terminology and old school methods. But people's lives were being changed for the better. The fact is no matter how goofy the local church may get, it's still God's hand-picked vehicle to bring mankind to Himself. So I purposed to lose the cynical attitude and get with the program—or plan, or paradigm, or whatever the latest nomenclature happened to be.

After Dr. Jorgensen finished, Tom discussed the concept of personal sacrifice, particularly related to working in the ministry. He thanked the entire staff for their personal sacrifices, their dedication to the task, and their great team spirit. He then finished the session by presenting two staff awards. Each year the entire staff voted for the _Most Dedicated_ staff member and for the _Best Team Player_.

Doreen McGinty won the _Most Dedicated_ award for the fourth year in a row. Every staff member at First Church fully appreciated the difficulty of rounding up a hundred-plus volunteers each and every weekend to work in the preschool and children's departments. Doreen spent three to four hours every Saturday evening working the phones and covering all the bases, even though Saturday was technically her day off. Good children's directors are few and far between. A smart church bends over backwards to keep a good one. And First Church was indeed a smart church. The _Most Dedicated_ award came with a three-day family getaway weekend to Orlando. Doreen had three kids of her own, so the package was a nice perk for her.

The _Best Team Player_ award had to go to a different winner each year, which made last year's winner, Johnny Rochelle, ineligible this time around. Also ineligible: Dr. Jorgensen, Tom Applebee, Doreen McGinty (as this year's _Most Dedicated_ winner), and the church intern. That would be me. It may not seem like a big deal, but to be picked by your co-workers as _The Best Team Player_ was indeed a huge honor. _The Best Team Player_ award also came with the famed and coveted _Mystery Trip_ for two. Only Dr. Jorgensen and Tom Applebee knew the destination spot. Last year, Johnny and his wife Sari got to spend a week in Tahiti.

As Tom opened the envelope with the winner's name inside, the anticipation in the Great Room grew thicker than fudge on a sundae. Everyone would joyfully celebrate the winner, but deep down inside they all desperately wanted to win. Tom smiled as he looked at the card. "And this year's winner of the _Best Team Player_ award, chosen by a vote of his peers, is—Harry Simpkins!"

"YEEESSS!" Harry hollered. He leapt off the couch he shared with Bob Stevens, spilling coffee all over Bob's tan Dockers. Harry didn't care. He was too pumped with adrenaline. Harry had never won before, though some of the other staff members had won multiple times. The other staff stood to congratulate him

"Chalk one up for the night kicker," I whispered in Thurm's ear.

Lost in the commotion I noticed Bob Stevens—eyes narrowed, futilely trying to towel off the coffee stain on his slacks. Somehow I doubted he'd voted for Harry.

And finally the _crème de la crème,_ this year's _Mystery Trip_ : a week in Scotland with accommodations at a newly refurbished castle, including tee times at the Old Course at St. Andrews. Rubbing my tender left ankle I tried to imagine what it would be like to play a round of golf with Harry.

I shuddered.

During the break that morning before the second session, I ran into Fred Snooker.

"Elmo," he called, heading across the room toward me. "What do you have planned for the free time after lunch?"

"Thurm asked me to play tennis again, but to be honest I'm looking for an out. There's only so much shame one man can take." I laughed.

"You're that bad?"

"It's actually quite painful to watch."

"No one is that bad," he argued.

"No, I really am," I insisted. "Think of watching your family pet get hit by an eighteen-wheeler."

"Ouch! That _would_ be hard to watch." He gritted his teeth. "Well, since you're looking for an excuse, why don't you spend an hour with me? You can invite Thurm to come if you'd like. I brought _The Black Toe Enigma_ scrapbook with me. I can explain the story and show you the artifacts. If you're interested, I'll reserve the Crow's Nest. It'll be quiet there."

"Let's do it. Where do I find the Crow's Nest?"

Fred pointed to the elevator door at the end of the south hall. "Just take that elevator all the way to the top. It opens into the Crow's Nest."

The second morning session was a blur. All the staff members presented their proposed budgets for next year. Since I didn't have one, I semi-snoozed through the presentations, staying just lucid enough to look attentive.

Next up—lunch. After a quick gourmet hamburger with French-cut potatoes, I slipped away to give Bonnie a call.

She picked up on the first ring. "Hello?"

"Hey Bonnie, it's Elmo."

"Elmo, I'm glad you called. There's been a development."

_A development? Sounds like a new neighborhood or something going in_. "I don't follow you."

"The concert is off," she stated matter-of-factly.

_Uh oh. What have I screwed up now?_ "What do you mean the concert's off?"

"Apparently your main man John Mayer ingested some bad sushi or something, and had to cancel his next few concert dates due to food poisoning. What a bonehead," she added, laughing.

I loved it when she threw sarcasm around. Kind of like a good girl's profanity. "Well, crud."

"Let me offer an alternative," she said. "I'll swing by Ticketmaster on the way home from work and get the tickets refunded."

_I knew I liked this girl_.

"Then why don't you just come to my place for dinner tonight? We can eat and maybe watch a movie. My roommate Peg will be here, but she'll be sequestered in her room finishing her term paper. What do you think?"

"Sounds like a plan. A good plan. They've cut our agenda down some, so we'll be getting back to town around six." I said, realizing I was smiling.

"Then make it seven at my place. Do you like Italian food?"

"I'll enjoy anything prepared by your hands."

She paused briefly. "Well, that was a bit cheesy."

I yawned. "Yeah, you're right. Sorry. I didn't get much sleep last night. But that's another story. Gotta run. I have a meeting with Fred Snooker. See you tonight."

"Bye, Elmo."

The Crow's Nest sat on the pinnacle at one end of the Main Lodge. Shaped like an octagon, it offered a 360-degree scenic view overlooking the entire _Golden Stallion_ development. Absolutely stunning.

Thurm and I met in the south hall and rode the elevator together up to the Crow's Nest. We found Fred there waiting for us, holding an old leather photo album.

"Gentlemen, have a seat. Can I get you a cold drink?" he offered.

"No thanks." I looked at Thurm who shook his head.

Fred sat down. "Where do you want to begin?"

"I can't speak for Thurm, but I need you to start at the beginning. I'm intrigued but totally clueless about this big toe thing."

"It's _The Black Toe Enigma_ ," Fred said, gently correcting me. "Thurm, what have you heard about this?"

"Not a whole lot, Pastor Snooker. I've heard some of the teenagers mention some spooky tooth thing about hidden messages and secret influences. You know, kind of a local _Da Vinci Code_ thing."

"Well, _The Black Toe Enigma_ was around long before they determined Da Vinci had a code." Fred placed the photo album on the table. "My predecessor, Aaron Spencer, gave me this album sometime in the late '50s. You can see it's quite old. _The Black Toe_ legend had been passed along by oral tradition for years until Aaron decided to document it. He chronicled everything he could find out about it and also started collecting what I call the 'TBT Artifacts.' Ninety percent of what's in this album was already compiled before he passed it on to me. I've added a handful of additional artifacts over the years as they surfaced. That gum wrapper you gave me the other day, Elmo, is the first new find in over ten years."

"What exactly is _The Black Toe Enigma_?" I asked.

Fred leaned forward, folding his hands together. "An enigma by definition is ambiguous or inexplicable, and that's what we have here. I can read you the legend and show you the artifacts, but from there your guess is as good as mine. Remember this thing is over a hundred years old—if you believe the legend."

Thurm jumped in. "What does the legend say?"

"Let me just read it to you," Fred said, as he slowly, and carefully opened the album. The first page appeared to be a faded, yellowed piece of paper with several typed paragraphs, obviously typed on an old manual ribbon-style typewriter. Fred had covered the page in plastic to preserve it. He started reading.

The Legend of The Black Toe

Researched and Compiled by Rev. Aaron Spencer

May 16, 1947

Legend has it The Black Toe Enigma began sometime before the turn of the century. It all started with an ill-fated hunting trip. Wiley Smith, Chairman of the Deacons at the time, and another unnamed church member got lost while hunting together late in the fall. An unexpected snow storm caught them off guard while they were many miles away from their camp site. The disoriented hunters stumbled around for several hours in the blinding snow until Wiley stepped through a partially-frozen stream breaking his right ankle and saturating his boot with water, a dangerous predicament in the sub-freezing temperature. The other much younger man took off his own boot and put it on the Chairman's foot, then carried him on his shoulders for many hours until they found shelter.

When rescuers finally discovered Wiley, he was delirious and the other man was nowhere to be found. Wiley could only remember that the young man had saved his life, and that frostbite had caused the other man's toes to turn black. The rescuer never came forward, and for reasons still unclear, Wiley Smith never chose to identify him.

_From that time on, the church folk suspected the presence of an anonymous person amongst the flock at First Church who was strong, courageous, and wise . . . and whose blackened, frostbitten toes remained hidden by his right shoe. As Wiley Smith grew older, he would occasionally mention that he'd conferred with_ The Black Toe _. The whispers would circulate, and the legend grew._

And that's how _The Black Toe Enigma_ got started," Fred said.

Thurm spoke first. "I don't get what the big deal is. A guy rescues the Chairman of the Deacons and gets frostbitten toes in the process. I mean, I admire his courage, but why are we talking about this over a hundred years later?"

Fred grinned. "It would've been a nice story that ended right there, except for these."

He started flipping through the pages of the album. Handwritten notes signed and dated _The Black Toe_ or _TBT_ filled the book. Official looking interoffice memos either mentioned something about _The Black Toe Enigma_ in the text of the memo, or were simply signed _TBT_. Several church newsletters or newspaper clippings included lengthy stories about _The Black Toe Enigma_. A variety of odd, random items like the gum wrapper I'd found were included as well. Most were dated and included cryptic messages or warnings.

Fred added, "And you have to remember these artifacts were collected over a period of a hundred years."

"So, are you telling us that some church member known only to Wiley Smith, would impart wisdom or guidance through secret contacts or anonymous messages to the leaders of the church?"

"That's one theory," Fred said. "But the range of dates involved would've made our mystery man well over one hundred years old."

"Then what do you think this all means?" I asked.

"To be honest, Elmo, I haven't given it much thought in a long time. Your gum wrapper discovery the other day brought it back to the surface. When I first received this album, I spent quite a bit of time trying to figure out the puzzle. Back then, I concluded that old _Black Toes_ was still alive and active in the church. I thought it was my goal to discover who it was. But over the years, I've come to believe that ninety-nine percent of the legend is baloney. And though an actual person may have existed during the '30s, '40s, and '50s going by the code name "The Black Toe," who was covertly influencing the church leadership, he has long ago passed away."

"I can understand how you arrived at your conclusion." I said. "But it leaves many unanswered questions. Why did this really get started? Why did somebody need to act covertly here at First Church? And who has kept the legend alive by planting these artifacts over the years? Just to name a few." I'd obviously been bitten by the _TBT_ mystery.

Fred closed the album and handed it to me. "Elmo, why don't you take this for a while and look it over. See what you come up with. I'd be really interested in hearing your thoughts after you've spent some time with it."

The last retreat session came and went, but my mind spent the time elsewhere thinking about the crazy _Black Toe_ _Enigma_. Later, for the two-hour trip back to the church, I chose to ride in the van named _John_ with Harry stowed safely in the other van. Negotiating the entire back seat for myself, I slept all the way back to the First Church parking lot.

I may have even snored.

### The Kiss

Standing on Bonnie's front porch I decided to do one final Elmo checklist:

Fly up—check.

Nose clear—check.

Breath mint in place—check.

Threat of gas—minimal.

I had on blue jeans, my signature flip flops, and an Arizona Cardinals football jersey (a gift). No watch, no rings, no jewelry. I'm not a jewelry kind of guy. Pity the poor girl who ends up marrying me. Perhaps she'll have a family heirloom wedding ring. Now, that would be a twofer.

_Ready or not here I come._ I pushed the doorbell. I felt really confident about this Elmo/Bonnie thing, and was trying hard not to mess it up. After a minute or so when no one came to the door, I started to lose my confidence. I pushed the doorbell again. _Maybe it's broken, maybe this is the wrong apartment, maybe I'm early, maybe I'm late, maybe I've got the wrong time altogether, maybe she's upset, maybe I ought to get out of here. I'm blushing, I just know it_. _I'll go back out to my car and call her and tell her I'm lost—which could actually be true_.

I started slowly walking back down the path from her apartment when I heard the door open. _Awkward._

"Elmo," I heard Bonnie say. "Where're you going, handsome?"

"Well, I, uh . . . well, uh . . . nowhere," I said stuttering, smiling, and blushing all at the same time. "Did you say _handsome_?"

"Yeah, and I meant it."

All of a sudden my confidence returned. Watching Bonnie stand there, leaning against her doorframe, I realized how really attractive she was. Call me smitten, but she was a knockout. She had on old faded jeans with raggedy holes in the knees topped with a navy blue sorority-girl T-shirt with _Got Grace?_ written in big white letters. _Now there's some subtle evangelism,_ I thought. She'd tied up her long brown hair in a ponytail, and she wore just a wisp of makeup. But what made Bonnie so beautiful were her eyes—her big, bright, beautiful eyes, the perfect blend of green and blue.

"What you got there, Elmo?" she asked, looking at the DVD in my hand.

"It's _The Princess Bride,_ one of my personal favorites," I said as I stepped back up onto the front porch. "I thought it might be fun to watch after dinner."

She leaned forward and whispered the movie's most famous line into my ear.

"Ah, I see you're a _Princess Bride_ aficionado." I smiled.

She smiled back as she led me into her apartment. "It's one of my favorite movies too."

"I should've known." I closed the door behind us. "Wow. You have a really nice apartment, Bonnie. Cool furniture."

"Most of the good pieces belong to my roommate Peg. I want you to meet her."

We walked down a short hall and around a corner into a small apartment-size kitchenette. Peg was pouring herself a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal.

Bonnie introduced us. "This is Peg Leahy, my roommate and best friend."

Peg looked up from her pouring and set the milk carton on the counter. She extended her hand to me. "Well, if it's not the Dread Intern Elmo," she said with a wink.

I shook her hand laughing, "I see that every occupant of this apartment has seen _The Princess Bride_."

"I grew up in the Sudan," Peg explained. "It was one of only six videos my family owned. Our copy was dubbed in French with English subtitles. I've watched it literally hundreds of times."

"Wait a minute," I said, "I recognize you from seminary. Didn't we have a class together last winter?"

"Systematic Theology to be exact." Peg chuckled. "I was there the infamous day you tried to sneak out early and accidentally stepped in the hood of that girl's coat, ripping off the fur collar. What a scream. Whatever happened with that?"

"Oooh, that was indeed a day of abject embarrassment, though it does seem kind of funny looking back on it now. It cost me $25 to get her coat repaired, and Dr. Edwards made me write a ten-page paper on ethics." I quickly pivoted, "So you lived in the Sudan?"

"Yes, my parents are missionaries there, and once I complete my degree at the seminary, I'm heading back."

"One of my best friends is in the mission degree program at Harvest Morgan," I said. "His name is Jamie Fulton. He's a black guy about six feet tall and kind of thin, but don't tell him I said that. He's leaning toward Africa when he graduates."

"I've met Jamie. Nice guy. I believe he's thinking about going to the Ivory Coast. Well, kids, I have a term paper to finish." She picked up her cereal bowl and headed toward her room. "Enjoy your dinner and the movie. It's a classic."

Bonnie had cooked a wonderful dinner. This was a pleasant surprise since singles often take a minimalist approach to meals. A married mom with several kids might prepare a meat or main dish, three or four side dishes, a small salad, some sort of bread with butter, and a homemade dessert—all in large quantities in case unexpected guests show up at the table. Add even more for the requisite leftovers, an important staple in a hungry family, and she'd prepared quite a lot of food. Whereas a single person will prepare one dish, often out of a box or a can making just enough for that meal, then wash it down with a can of Coke followed by a tasty pint of Ben & Jerry's finest.

Bonnie had outdone herself by making a three-cheese lasagna, a Caesar salad, and hot, buttery garlic bread. Of course, she served the obligatory cans of Coke—after all, we're both single. She'd covered their _little bitty_ kitchenette table with a red and white checkered tablecloth. She'd even set the table with _cloth_ napkins— I'm not kidding you! I felt like I was in _Lady and the Tramp_. The final touch—a candle in the top of an empty Sangria bottle with a wicker bottom. I half expected Peg to reappear, red cummerbund in place, with a starched towel over her arm.

To be honest, I was a bit taken aback by her efforts. "What's the special occasion?"

"You Elmo. _You're_ a special occasion," she said, misquoting a Marlon Brando line.

"I can see you're a romantic, meaning I'm probably in big trouble. I, like most American males, have no clue what being romantic means."

She laid her hand gently on mine, "I think your naiveté is actually quite charming. Would you mind blessing our food?"

"Sure." I then closed my eyes and stumbled through something no doubt both grammatically and theologically inaccurate, but I did hammer home the _Amen_ with gusto. When I opened my eyes looking for some kind of affirmation, Bonnie was smiling one of those _you're-cute-even-though-you're-a-dufus_ smiles.

The meal was wonderful. And that's right; we topped it off by sharing a pint of Ben & Jerry's _Chunky Monkey_.

"Bonnie, what do you know about _The Black Toe Enigma?"_ I asked casually as we ate our ice cream.

"I have no idea. It sounds like some type of serious though puzzling athlete's foot condition."

"Clever," I said scraping the carton for the last remnant of ice cream. "Actually, you aren't very far off the mark. It has to do with cryptic messages left over the years in various places around the First Church buildings, supposedly left by some mysterious church member who had frostbitten toes."

"Do you know how stupid that sounds?" She stood to start clearing the table.

"I would normally agree, except Fred Snooker loaned me a scrapbook full of what he calls _The Black Toe Enigma_ artifacts. These are actual bits and pieces of evidence collected over the last hundred years."

"Well, what are you going to do with it?" Bonnie asked, placing the last dish in the fridge.

"I'm not sure, but just think how much fun it would be to solve a century-old riddle." I could just sense Bonnie didn't share my enthusiasm on the subject. _I would have to go the TBT journey alone_. I changed subjects. "Hey, let me load the dishwasher."

"That would be great," she said, wiping off the table.

A few minutes later we sat down on the futon in her living room, making small talk and easing back into the old _intimacy zone_. I admit it. I'm _completely_ intimidated by the intimacy thing.

Bonnie ran her fingers through the hair over my right ear. "Elmo, I'm really starting to like you. A _lot_. And I think you like me too. I want to get to know you better." She paused. "I've made some premature assumptions in past relationships that led to hurtful outcomes, but I'd like to think I've learned from those mistakes."

I smiled at her. I hadn't had sufficient opportunities to make many relationship blunders, but intuitively I understood what she was saying.

"So tell me, why are you studying for the ministry?" Her question seemed sincere.

"Okay," I said, relaxing my posture, lifting my left arm on the back of the futon, softly touching her shoulder. "Here goes. In my late teens, I started listening for the first time to the messages from the pulpit. Up until that time, I only went to church because my folks expected me to. One Sunday it just started to make sense. Our pastor told stories about guys in the Bible who had the same kinds of doubts and feelings I was having. Yet God still used those guys to literally change the known world.

"Then one day our pastor invited me out for lunch. He said he sensed something special about me, and wanted to know if I would be interested in being discipled for a year. I thought about it for a few days and decided why not. Pastor Ron was cool, and he treated me like an adult. I liked that. I was about halfway through college at the time and still living at home. So we met once a week in the Student Union lounge at my college for about an hour. It seemed pretty lightweight at the time. He'd throw out some question about the Bible, or faith, or spiritual growth, and we'd just discuss it. He'd let me ask questions then give me Bible-based answers. I began to better understand who God was, and that the world didn't revolve around me, and that God has a purpose for my life. Like the Psalmist said, _God had ordained my days before they ever came to be._ "

As I was telling my story, I watched Bonnie closely. I wondered how she'd respond to this bare-my-soul kind of conversation. She appeared genuinely interested, smiling and nodding in approval at the right times.

"After I finished college, I felt a tug in my spirit that perhaps God wanted me to use my gifts and skills, as meager as they are, in some kind of ministry service. With Pastor Ron's encouragement, the seminary seemed like the natural next step.

"And that brings us up to today."

"Elmo, I suspected you had a deep serious side," she said, "but I haven't seen much if it before."

"Yeah, I tend to be more of a life-of-the-party, cut up kinda guy. I guess it helps conceal my insecurities or something." I said feeling uncomfortably transparent.

"Me too," Bonnie offered. "I'm actually quite shy. I know I might've seemed kind of aggressive with you, but to be honest, I had to work up my courage. There was just something about you I liked from the first time we met, and I couldn't shake it."

Flattered, I felt my heart start to soft-shoe around in my chest. And then I did it, surprising even myself—I leaned over and kissed Bonnie. It seemed so natural. She responded, putting her arms around my neck . . . _and man, were her lips soft and warm . . ._

I'd waited for this moment for a long, long time.

"Ta Da! The term paper is finished." Peg's shouted from her room.

We were too focused on each other to pay any attention. Too focused to hear her door open and the footsteps coming down the hall . . .

Peg rounded the corner, caught us kissing, and in her best _Vizzini_ voice demanded, "Knock off the lip-lock, I mean it!"

We broke our embrace and I quickly rhymed back, "You wouldn't have known if you hadn't seen it!"

All three of us laughed until it hurt. Finally, after catching my breath, I asked Peg if she wanted to join us for the movie.

"Sure would," she said, plopping into an easy chair. "You all can just rub noses some other time."

We could and we would.

### The Big Top

Show Time!

As a church staff, everything we did focused toward the Sunday morning worship service (also known amongst us insiders as under _The Big Top_ ). A large percentage of the congregation knew nothing about First Church apart from its Sunday morning worship service. For many, this service became an integral component of their Sunday morning routine. For others, it held no more significance than, say, a weekly television program they might watch regularly. Dr. Horace Jorgensen, Harry "The Night Kicker" Simpkins, Tom Applebee, Erlene Markham, Louis Estrada (on announcements), and whomever else might be on the platform that day, would mysteriously appear. Each service included some talking, some singing, some preaching, then all the actors would fade back into the unconscious minds of the members as they scurried back out to their cars.

It was a cardinal rule (no Catholic sarcasm intended) that the Sunday morning worship service start promptly at 10:30 a.m. Yet, of even greater importance at First Church, the Sunday morning worship service always, and I do mean _always_ , ended by 11:30. This rule had been mandated through decree by the Deacon Board. Most of the other downtown churches started at 11:00 and finished around noon. By ending at 11:30, First Church members had a full thirty-minute jump on getting to the best restaurants for lunch. According to Tom Applebee, several hundred folks attended our Sunday morning service just because of the early start time. For a staff member to cause the Sunday morning service to run late violated this sacred principle, and guaranteed that poor soul a slot on the next Deacons meeting agenda. Not a happy place to be.

After losing a staff member or two over this sacred time issue, and realizing that the Deacons were indeed serious about it, Dr. Jorgenson put in place some helpful tools. First came _The Clock_. Think Mission Control at NASA. _The Clock,_ measuring four feet wide by one foot tall, displayed the time in large white digital numbers. Mounted dead center on the front of the balcony, the accurate time was impossible to miss when you stood in the pulpit. Only those on the platform could see it. So it wasn't a distraction for the congregation in the pews, except for the occasional teenager turning around to check the time. During the Sunday morning worship service, per Dr. Jorgenson's instructions, _The Clock_ ran backwards—a countdown starting at sixty minutes. With ten minutes left in the service, the numbers changed from white to red and the seconds also became visible for _The Countdown._

Dr. Jorgensen timed his messages to end before the numbers on _The Clock_ turned red. Otherwise, the service would run late, and the Deacons would howl. As an added precaution, he had trained the sound man to flash a bright white light from the sound booth—twice when he had five minutes to go, and once again with one minute left. Over the years, Horace had become the master of a concise summation. Each Sunday morning he would wax eloquently for twenty-four minutes, spinning all kinds of deep philosophical webs, asking penetrating spiritual questions, and challenging the saints to take the narrow road in life. Then, when the white light flashed from the sound booth indicating the sixty-second warning, Dr. Horace Jorgensen would somehow answer every posed question and tie up every loose end. He would finish by inviting those who would like to meet God or move their membership to First Church to join him at the front of the sanctuary.

Upon hearing the words ". . . move your membership," Harry Simpkins would spring to his feet, simultaneously whirling toward the choir in one fluid motion. He would signal them to stand, signal the organist to begin playing, then spin back around just in time for the first downbeat to lead the congregation in the first, second, and fourth verses of _Just As I Am_ or _I Surrender All_. I always felt sorry for those poor third verses of hymns . . . all dressed up and no place to go.

If Dr. Jorgenson was the master of the closing summation, Harry was the royal wizard of the closing song. Always in total control, he would wind down everything just in time. If they were running way behind, he'd cut a verse of the hymn. If they were running just slightly behind, he'd pick up the tempo of the song. If they were slightly ahead, he would merely repeat the chorus one more time at the end. This was a fine art, and Harry was the _artiste most excellenté_.

During the invitation, Dr. Jorgenson would stand at the head of the center aisle and greet folks coming forward. He would then pass them off either to Tom Applebee or Louis Estrada, who would walk them over to the counseling room door and turn them over to Erlene Markham. Erlene would then escort them into the counseling room, where trained counselors waited to get their information and answer their questions.

These last ten minutes ran like a well-oiled machine. With just one minute left, Harry would bring the music to a close, and Dr. Jorgensen would close in a brief prayer. By the time the members turned to leave, _The Countdown_ was complete. _The Clock_ simply flashed _Have a great day!_

I found myself tossed into this tightly-orchestrated intrigue one autumn Sunday morning. Louis Estrada had been called out of town for a family emergency, so Tom Applebee informed me that I would be doing the announcements in his place.

"Elmo," Tom began, putting his hand on my shoulder. "The time has come for you to move up to the next level."

I knew immediately what that meant. "What will I be doing under _The_ _Big Top_?" I asked with a nervous smile.

"You'll be giving the standard announcements and also acknowledging the winners of our Sunday School High Attendance Day. I'll provide you with all the necessary details."

"I'll be there, and I'll be ready," I asserted, acting more confident than I felt.

"Just remember that even though there's some license to vamp off your notes, time control is critical on Sunday mornings. Any overage on our part up front in the service means that Dr. Jorgensen and Harry have to tap dance at the end."

_No pressure_. "I fully understand, and thank you for this opportunity, Tom."

One of Tom Applebee's responsibilities at First Church included overseeing the Sunday school program. The preschool, children, youth, college, and single ministers and coordinators all ran their respective Sunday school classes, and merely reported their attendance numbers to Adrianne Figghie each Sunday morning. Adrianne then compiled those numbers along with the attendance figures from the forty or so adult classes that met regularly on Sunday mornings at First Church. The _Final Number_ would be totaled at the last possible minute to allow time for stragglers, then sent to Tom Applebee's Blackberry just in time for him to make the Sunday School Report at the beginning of the worship service. I would liken his announcement of the _Final Number_ to the closing bell of the New York Stock Exchange. Though most members rarely attended Sunday school, the savvy First Church membership knew that a good _Final Number_ meant all was well at the church.

Legend has it, one year a redeemed bookie named Benny "Quick Hands" McDonald who attended First Church, fell into temptation, taking bets on the _Final Number_ each week. But this side game came to a screeching halt when it was discovered he'd been manipulating the _Final Number_ by sending carloads of his old drinking buddies to Sunday school classes each week in order to pad the total. Benny had put a whole new spin on Sunday school evangelism, but alas, in the end it didn't pay off . . . too much of a gamble.

The Adult Sunday School Department at First Church operated under the leadership of a volunteer named Alex Leichhardt. In my opinion Alex was a full-blown schizophrenic. First clue? By day he worked at the Corp of Engineers; by night, he became a used car salesman. On one hand he was this precise, pragmatic, logistical genius; on the other hand, he'd sell a full-sized Hummer with spinners and the ultimate tow package to a widowed grandmother with only one arm. He was supposedly married, but no one had ever seen or talked to his wife. If he had any kids, he never mentioned them. This unique mix of personality traits made Alex the quintessential Adult Sunday School Director, and he excelled at it.

First Church held to a well-accepted set of church growth axioms. They believed:

1. A growing church is a healthy church.

2. The best growth comes through the Sunday school.

3. New groups or classes grow much faster than existing ones.

To Alex Leichhardt these meant one thing: the more new adult Sunday school classes, the healthier the church. So he set his face like flint to the task of creating new "units" as he called them. It's always amazed me how the church growth gurus can somehow use mathematical formulas to accomplish spiritual goals. I wonder if that's why the book of Numbers is in the Bible. Just a thought.

Every autumn, First Church would have a _Sunday School_ _High Attendance Day_. The goal—to bring in as many people as possible to attend Sunday school on that given day, with the intent that some might just stick around. The planning meetings began in late summer. Several lay members, along with Tom, Alex, and me, comprised a special committee to come up with this year's _Sunday School_ _High Attendance Day_ theme. Alex would come up with a list of ten possible themes and bring them to our first meeting.

After introductions and a few general comments, Tom jumped right in. "Alex has prepared a list of ten themes for us to consider. Our goal tonight is to select one of these ten for this year's theme. Alex, how did you come up with these themes?"

Alex straightened in his chair "Well, Tom, I sent out a survey to all of our adult Sunday school teachers and department leaders asking for their suggestions for this year's theme. I received back forty-three suggestions. After removing the prank entrees and the downright silly suggestions, I ended up with about twenty useable themes. Several of these had been used before, or were similar to previous themes, so I culled them out, leaving about fifteen on the list. I then ordered them in a 'best-to-worst' list and kept the top ten for our discussion this evening." He then gave each of us a copy of the list:

1. Choose to honor God by being in Sunday school this year.

2. Sunday school at First Church—there's no better place to be.

3. Let's set a new world's record in Sunday school this year.

4. Do you attend Sunday school at First Church? If not, why not?

5. Make friends, meet needs, attend a Sunday school class!

6. Sunday school: one small step for man, one giant step for First Church.

7. Sunday school—it's the place to be!

8. You can do better. Go to Sunday School.

9. Sunday school. Just do it!

10. What the world needs now is YOU in Sunday School.

Alex gave everyone a few minutes to look over the list then added, "These are in random order, just so you know."

"Well done," Tom said smiling. "I see several great possibilities for us on here. Let's each pick our top three favorites by putting an X in front of them, and then we'll total them to find a winner."

Personally, I thought they were all pretty lame with the exception of number nine, but then again I'm a big Nike fan. We ended up with, _Sunday school: one small step for man, one giant step for First Church_. I envisioned Tom Applebee promoting this by climbing down the pulpit in a space suit. He could have wires attached to simulate the low gravity on the moon, and they could alter his voice to make him sound as if he were speaking on a low wattage transistor radio.

"Now that we have a theme," Tom said, "all we need is a numerical goal. Remember, it needs to be big enough to present a challenge, but not so big that it's self-defeating."

_I wonder how many times he's used that line in the past_. _Somewhere out there Peter Drucker was smiling._

Tom continued, "We've been averaging between sixteen and seventeen hundred in Sunday school so far this year."

Several numbers were bantered around until someone suggested two thousand, a number we could all agree on. I suggested making it "2001" to stay with the space motif created by our theme. They loved the idea. I noticed Tom looking off into the distance as if in deep thought. I just knew he was picturing himself in that space suit climbing down from the pulpit.

Alex took over from there, and ran with it from that day forward. Other than sitting in on a few more meetings, I wasn't very involved in the campaign. But I could see Alex really kicking up some dust. He may have been a competent engineer, but when it came to sales, he kicked into a whole new gear. He designed and posted slick four-color posters all through the church buildings for the _High Attendance Day_. He used an actual photo of an Apollo lunar module with the campaign theme spelled out in stars streaking across the sky and the American flag in the background. It inspired even me. He put together a phone tree to make sure every member at First Church received at least two calls to invite them to Sunday school on High Attendance Sunday. Each member also received two postcards with a big _2001_ printed on the front and the theme on the back. He held several meetings with his teachers and directors, most of them resembling those Amway rallies with all the whooping and hollering, and gift giveaways, and special awards, and standing ovations. They too were inspiring. I'd been told that First Church had never failed to hit a high attendance goal since Alex had become director. I made up my mind that if I ever owned my own company, the first person I would hire would be Alex Leichhardt.

The excitement and intensity built for weeks. By the time the _Sunday School_ _High Attendance Day_ arrived, the whole church was abuzz with expectation. And somehow, it had fallen upon my shoulders—the lowly church intern—to announce the _Final Number_ and the winning adult class with the biggest increase.

That Sunday morning, as I sat down in one of the throne-like chairs on the platform, Tom handed me my list of announcements. He whispered a reminder that he would cue me when it was my turn. I'd watched Louis do the announcements numerous times, but it's totally different when you're sitting on the platform looking out at three thousand plus faces. Shifting uncomfortably in the big chair, I glanced at the list in my hands. There were the two standard announcements; one about the tear-off prayer request flap in the bulletin, and the other about the correct parking lot protocol.

And there it was. The _Final Number_ for this year's _Sunday School_ _High Attendance Day_. My hands began to tremble. At this moment, only three people in the world knew this number: Adrianne, who had tabulated it; Tom, who had just received it on his Blackberry; and now me. I felt like Ryan Seacrest. As I regained my composure, I realized Alex had really outdone himself. Yet again I was impressed by this unique man's superhuman ability.

While I waited nervously for my turn behind the big oak pulpit, Miss Geraldine Fitzsimons O'Leary wowed the congregation with her boisterous rendition of _His Eye is on the Sparrow_. They always wheeled out the rotund Miss O'Leary on important Sundays. Not only because she was the undisputed queen of the money note—able to hold a high C for minutes on end—but also because she was Smitty Fitzsimons's _other_ sister. Meaning, she was Annette May Jorgensen's sister and thereby, the Pastor's sister-in-law. You get the idea. Nepotism at its finest.

Geraldine had been briefly married when she was quite young. But the marriage ended tragically when her husband, an older foreign gentleman, died suddenly in his sleep. Her sorrow was tempered by his billion-dollar estate which she inherited upon his death. She never remarried and kept his legal name, though she insisted on being called Miss O'Leary. When her mother Lady Estella passed away, Geraldine assumed her role as matriarch of the Fitzsimons family. She made sure her much younger siblings Smithson and Annette attended the finest universities and were given every opportunity to succeed in life. Smithson, affectionately known as Smitty to all his friends and family, proved to be gifted in the area of business, and assumed responsibility for managing the Fitzsimons's numerous enterprises. This freed up Geraldine to attend to all the necessary social duties befitting her station in society, a role in which she both delighted and excelled.

As Geraldine hit the last refrain high and hard, the congregation rose for the obligatory standing ovation. Tom reached over and touched my arm.

"Elmo, you're up next as soon as the music fades down."

I cleared my throat, swallowed, and sat up on the front edge of my chair. Then, as Geraldine took a subtle bow and glided off the platform, I stood and quickly approached the pulpit with my notes firmly in hand.

Standing there surveying the sanctuary while the crowd was settling back into their seats, I had a calm spirit come over me. I quietly thanked the Lord for it. Sticking to the script, I asked everyone to find their bulletins, then explained about the tear-off prayer request form. Next, I encouraged them to patiently follow the correct parking lot egress procedures, thus assuring the quickest and safest possible exit for all.

Then it was time for the big announcement—the _Sunday School_ _High Attendance Day_ _Final Number_. I asked Alex Leichhardt and his leadership team to stand. Then I asked all of the Sunday school department directors and teachers to stand. Finally, I asked everyone who had attended Sunday school that morning to stand. I guessed about sixty to seventy percent of those in attendance were standing. Alex, Tom, and even Dr. Jorgensen all beamed. As the excitement continued to build, I reminded everyone of this year's theme and our goal to have "2001" in Sunday school attendance.

I paused briefly for dramatic effect, then took a deep breath and said, "And the _Final Number_ for this year's _Sunday School_ _High Attendance Day_ is—2,764!"

Audible gasps arose from both the congregation and the choir loft, followed by a spontaneous outbreak of cheering and hugs throughout the sanctuary. Alex was beside himself. He worked the crowd like a man who'd just won a seat in Congress. In a most unusual and out-of-character gesture, Dr. Jorgensen gave a very surprised Tom Applebee a big hug. It was a special moment, and I let it continue for a minute or two, even though _The Clock_ glared at me the whole time. _Harry Simpkins will just have to tap dance later at the end of the service._ I smiled at the thought.

Finally, I quieted everyone down and asked them to take their seats. Time had come for the announcement of the adult class with the biggest increase in attendance for the day. The entire membership of the winning class would be treated to dinner at Ruth's Chris Steakhouse. Another one of Alex's ideas that had apparently paid off— _big time_.

I held up my note card and as the room grew quiet I announced, "This year's winner is—the Young Married class!"

An outburst of screams and laughter to my left erupted as about three dozen twenty-something's jumped up and started "high-fiving" each other. The rest of the congregation gave them a nice courtesy applause.

And then, for reasons I still do not fully understand, I tagged on an ad-lib, saying, "And we all know how hard it is to get the Young Marrieds out of bed!" Of course, I _meant_ to add "on Sunday mornings," but in the excitement of the moment, I left off those three critical words. I didn't even realize my gaffe.

The organ kicked in with the prelude to the next hymn, and I strolled off the platform glad it was over, but generally pleased with my presentation. That was until Thurm grabbed me in the hall and repeated what I had just said, between his outbursts of laughter. After my initial shock wore off, I had to laugh too. It was an honest mistake. What could they do to me anyway? Move my office into a closet?

I told Thurm to take a hike, then I headed off to find Bonnie for an affirming hug. Maybe even a kiss if I were lucky.

### The Hospital Visit

Monday, Monday, Monday, it's already Monday again. Church work is basically a six-day work week. You work Monday through Friday like everybody else, but then you also work Sunday. Yet it's generally accepted that Sunday doesn't count as a work day, based on the theory that even if you didn't work at the church, you'd be there anyway. Forgotten in this assumption is the fact that Sundays are easily the most demanding day of the work week for those in ministry, often lasting from seven in the morning until nine at night. Our _High Attendance_ Sunday had been one of those long, grueling Sundays, so Tom Applebee told the entire staff to take Monday morning off. I knew I liked him.

Swinging by the church at noon, I picked up my hospital visitation slips. Typical Monday, meaning I had ten visits to make, spread out over three different hospitals. Since I'd been making these visits for months now, I'd become rather efficient at getting in, getting it done, and getting out. Ten visits would take a little over two hours. No sweat. That gave me more than enough time to make my weekly appointment with Dr. De Villa at 3:30.

Things were moving along briskly as planned until my last visit. The hospital slip listed the patient's name as Justin Kryder, age 23. His name had been turned in by a friend who attended First Church. A notation indicated he'd been hospitalized due to severe chest pains. _Wow,_ I thought. _He's kind of young to be having heart problems._ Still, I planned to pop in, introduce myself, pray with Justin, and slip out. But even before I found his room on the fifth floor, I sensed God laying the groundwork in my spirit for something else.

When I arrived at Room 537, I found Justin sleeping peacefully on his back. Standard protocol for this scenario dictated that I leave my card and not wake the patient. As I gently placed my card on his bedside table and quietly turned to leave, I heard a faint whisper.

"Thank you."

I wasn't even sure he had actually spoken, but when I turned back around, his eyes had opened.

"Well hello, Justin. I'm Elmo Jenkins from First Church. I thought you were sleeping. Sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you."

With the slightest smile, still whispering he said, "That's all right."

He had a gentle face, but with sad eyes. He actually looked much younger than twenty-three, maybe sixteen or seventeen. He sat up and leaned back against his pillows. "I've never been to First Church," he said with a little more volume. "Isn't it that big church downtown? I've seen it on television several times. I don't do church much."

"Yes, First Church is downtown, and I guess it's pretty big. A friend of yours who attends there asked us to stop by," I said, checking his hospital visitation slip again. "But I'm sorry, I don't have their name."

"That's okay. I appreciate you coming. I've been here a week, and you're my first visitor."

"Really?" I said, sincerely surprised. "Don't you have any family here in the area?"

"My mother and father both live here, but they don't get along, and I'm not close to either of them. As far as I know, they don't even know I'm here in the hospital." I couldn't detect any emotion in his voice.

"What about friends?" I asked.

"Oh, I've got a few," he stated, "but I didn't want to bother them with my problems. They've got enough of their own."

"Justin, it says here you're experiencing chest pains. Do they have any idea what's causing them?"

"It's really more of an ache," he said looking at my card. "Mr. Jenkins, are you a minister?"

"Please call me Elmo. I'm really more like a minister-in-training. Though I do all the same stuff the regular ministers do. I just get paid less."

Justin smiled.

"Any idea what's causing your chest to ache?"

"Well, I know I look young, but trust me, I've already lived a lifetime. There's been lots of heartache."

"Oh really," I said stepping closer to his bedside.

He continued. "Yeah. I've run into so many dead-ends in school and family and relationships, and they all hurt, bad. Most of the time I just feel like Bono."

"Bono?"

"You know, the U2 song where the guy still hasn't found what he's looking for?"

"Do you mind if I pull up a chair?" I asked.

"No, not all."

From my perspective, it seems like in today's world, at least in the U.S., there aren't that many open doors to talk to people about God. But Justin had just kicked one wide open, and I wanted to take all the time he needed to answer any questions he might have about faith.

"Justin, what exactly is it you're looking for?"

Who knew that a Bono song could spark a discussion for a young man to open his life to God? We talked for almost an hour, and I believe with all my heart that Justin made a sincere commitment to follow Christ. Promising to be there for him as he started his new adventure of faith, I gave him my cell phone number. I also made a mental note to talk to Louis Estrada when he got back in town to follow up on Justin with some of the young singles.

At 3:30 on the nose, I strode into Dr. DV's outer office.

"Hey Elmo," Bess said, looking up from her book. "Don't forget to sign the ledger."

I signed the page. "Is the old man here today?"

"Not yet, but he's supposed to be here any minute." She smiled as she carefully placed her bookmark in her textbook and closed it. "Just have a seat."

I sat down as an awkward silence filled the room for several moments.

"I understand you're dating Bonnie St. Hiliare."

_Was that a statement or a question?_ "Wow. Where did you hear that?"

"Peg Leahy and I have several classes together."

"Oh, Bonnie's roommate, Peg, yes. Nice lady. Funny sense of humor."

A gossip's smile crept across her face. "She said she caught you all kissing,"

I felt a blush spreading. "Well, if she said that it must be true."

How did I ever get into this conversation, and how was I going to get out of it?

Suddenly, Dr. De Villa burst in with a flurry, coming to my rescue. I stood as he rushed by me. "Afternoon, Dr. DV."

"Jenkins, is it Monday afternoon already? Dang it, where has this day gone?"

Following him into his office, I closed the door behind me. He immediately made a phone call as I took a seat and waited my turn.

Dr. De Villa's office was quite small with no windows. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled three walls, each slammed full with thick, ancient volumes. His library included tomes on Theology, Psychology, Sociology, and several other "-ologies" that I couldn't pronounce. The thick accumulation of dust suggested that most if not all the books had not been touched in many years. He had set aside two shelves for his collection of bowling trophies, all shapes and sizes. Apparently, he'd been quite the bowler. The trophies appeared free of dust, as if they'd been dusted or at least handled recently. _Curious . . ._

It seemed to me like some form of heresy for theological texts and bowling trophies to occupy the same bookcase. I always thought most bowlers were predominantly of the blue-collar bent, not world-class academicians. Yet Augie broke all the molds for seminary professors. Maybe something deeper explained it; something I was missing. Perhaps he mentally painted each bowling pin with the face of an adversary then mowed them down without mercy. I could easily envision Fred Snooker's face on the head pin, taking the first crushing blow with each new rack.

Dr. DV slammed down the phone. "Morons!" He looked up at me. "Don't even ask."

Not sure how to respond, I said nothing. Something told me this would not be a happy meeting. Or so I thought.

Then Dr. DV, famous for his dramatic mood swings, slowly fashioned a big grin and calmly asked, "What did he say?"

Clueless. "What did who say?"

"Old Fish Face Snooker. What did he say when you gave him the envelope?"

"To be honest, sir, he appeared quite incredulous, but very pleased."

"Good, good." Dr DV came around and sat on the front of his desk. "But what did he say, my young Jenkins?"

"Well, he mentioned that you had owed him that money for over forty years, and he said to be sure to thank you for him the next time I saw you."

"Jenkins, my boy, you have done well, and you shall be rewarded." He paused to ponder, fist against his chin. "Tell you what, you may skip our meeting next week."

_Crud!_ _I was hoping for my own envelope with a hundred bucks tucked inside._

He smiled. "Please tell the old man he's been on my mind a lot lately."

I smiled back, "I will. And thank you, sir."

"Now about your internship. Bess tells me you have a girlfriend at the church . . ."

### The Memo

A single piece of paper occupied my mailbox on Tuesday morning—a memo.

MEMO

From: Fran Bruker

To: Elmo Jenkins

Re: Golfing with Dr. Jorgensen on Thursday

Dear Elmo,

Dr. Jorgensen has requested that you join him for a round of golf on Thursday morning. Denton Persay, one of Pastor's regular Thursday foursome, had to cancel this week. Dr. Persay is a heart surgeon and has a bypass procedure scheduled that morning. Bring your clubs here to the church at 8:00 a.m., and you'll drive over to the Echelon Country Club with the Pastor. Your golf and lunch will be provided courtesy of Smitty Fitzsimons who will also be playing.

Sincerely,

Fran

Though I stink at fishing, and I'm scary bad at tennis, I'm actually a pretty decent golfer. Dr. Jorgensen and I had spent a few minutes at the staff retreat talking about golf, which probably accounted for the invitation. The Echelon Country Club rivaled Augusta in pedigree and prestige. A chance to play such an exclusive course was quite a perk.

I played on the golf team in high school. I wasn't the best player on our team, but I was good enough to fancy the idea of someday playing golf professionally. God must have had other plans, because I never received any scholarship offers to play golf in college. But I still loved the game. Needless to say, Fran's memo came as great news. I couldn't wait until Thursday morning.

In my brief tenure on staff at First Church, I'd already discerned that nothing transpires without a reason—especially if it takes four to five hours of Dr. Jorgensen's time. Throw Smitty Fitzsimons into the mix, and I could guarantee something was cooking. So I thought it wise to run the memo by Tom Applebee for his opinion and seasoned advice.

Adrianne told me I could find Tom up on the roof of the Education Building. I found him sitting at one of the picnic tables in the covered recreation area with his laptop open. Adrianne had told me that on nice days, Pastor Applebee would often steal away to the roof to escape from the phones so he could get some work done.

As I got off the elevator and walked across the basketball court toward Tom, I observed a large patch in the retaining wall. A hole had been repaired—a really _big_ hole. Remembering my dream that night at the staff retreat, I visualized myself standing in front of that gaping hole trying to keep the children from falling off the building. I'm not one to give a whole lot of credence to the significance of dreams, but now I was intrigued. I made a mental note to Google _Holden Caulfield_ and find out what Thurm had meant.

Tom must have noticed me studying the retaining wall. "Now there's a story," he said, reaching out to shake my hand. "What a day that was."

I toyed with the idea of telling him about my dream, but thought better of it. "Don't tell me. Some 300-pound deacon missed a lay-up and crashed through the wall?"

"Actually, it was a lot more exciting than that." He laughed. "They had one of those mini sky-bucket contraptions up here to mount the court lights up on the light poles. The worker jumped out of it to get something and forgot to set the brake. He turned around just in time to see it smash through the retaining wall and go over the side of the building—sky-bucket and all."

"Oh my!" I exclaimed. "That's _six floors down_ to the sidewalk below. Did anyone get hurt?"

"Fortunately, no one was below at the time. But Harry Simpkins's brand spanking new Mustang wasn't so lucky." Tom grinned from ear to ear as he momentarily got lost in the memory of the fateful day. Then discarding any pretense, he laughed out loud. "You see, Harry had just bought it. He'd only had it a couple of weeks. Brand-new red Mustang, fully loaded . . . a bit of a pride issue at play there. And even though we provide free parking for the staff right across the street, Harry decided to park his new car along the curb and pay the meter several times a day. He babied that thing and was worried the doors would get nicked-up if he parked next to other cars, which in all fairness probably would have happened.

"Well, that sky-bucket contraption fell right on top of Harry's new car smashing it to smithereens. The impact turned on the car's CD player at full volume, playing none other than Harry's personally autographed copy of _Air Supply's_ greatest hits, to the delight of the small crowd that had gathered to see what had happened. It was surreal, and poor Harry was undone. The rest of us felt bad for him, but I have to be honest— it was also _hilarious_." He laughed again, clearly enjoying the memory.

"We were just relieved that no one was injured or killed. You know, Elmo, someone ought to write a book about Harry and all his adventures. But enough about Harry. What can I do for you?"

I sat down across the picnic table from Tom. "I need some advice." I handed him the memo from Fran and asked, "Any ideas what this is all about?"

Tom smiled as he perused the memo. "Looks to me like you're in for a round of golf."

Hoping for more here . . .

He handed back the memo. "I don't play golf. Bowling is my sport of choice."

_Bowling. Again. I was going to have to rethink my attitude toward bowlers_. "Ever bowl with Dr. De Villa?"

"No, but I understand he was quite the bowler back in his day."

I stood back up to leave. "So you think there's nothing more to this round of golf than just a round of golf?"

"No," Tom said, closing his laptop. "I didn't say that. It'll be golf first and foremost. Our pastor is very serious about his golf game. But I'm sure there's some secondary agenda; though to be honest I have no inkling what it might be. Just go and have fun. Those four guys have played golf together almost every Thursday morning for years. Be prepared for a small wager of some sort. Oh, and don't be shocked—Dr. Jorgensen always smokes a stogie when he golfs. Pray you ride in the other cart.

We headed back across the court toward the elevator. "Who are the other two guys who play in the group?" I asked.

"Well, let's see. The memo said Denton Persay, the heart surgeon, won't be there. Be glad. Denton's a great guy, but he plays golf angry. And it's not pretty to be around. So that leaves Smitty Fitzsimons, and the fourth member of the group is Hartzel Wiley Smith, the IV."

"As in the great-great-grandson of Wiley Smith, the legendary former Chairmen of the Deacons?" I could hear the excitement in my own voice.

Tom stopped walking and looked at me with astonishment. "How have you found the time or the desire to read back through a hundred years of First Church history?"

"I'm energetic, but not at that level," I admitted. "I heard about Wiley Smith from Fred Snooker."

Tom chuckled. "Ah. _The_ _Black Toe_ lore." He pushed the elevator button. "Then you'll definitely want to ride in Harty's cart on Thursday. He knows all about _The_ _Black Toe Enigma._ By the way, did Fred show you that scrapbook?"

The elevator doors closed us in.

As I rounded the last corner of the second-floor hallway on the way to my office, I ran into Dunston Jones. He was pushing one of those non-electric carpet sweepers picking up lint from the hallway carpet.

"Hey, Dunston. How you doing?

"Fine-'n-you?" he said with his famous big grin.

"Do you have a minute? I'd like to ask you something."

"Sure."

"Great." I patted him on the back as we walked into _The Closet_ together.

In the middle of my table, I found a paper plate with a dozen chocolate chip cookies covered with Saran wrap. A lavender envelope rested on top of them. Setting the card aside for later, I picked up the plate of cookies and removed the plastic wrap.

"Dunston, would you like a cookie?"

"No thanks, Elmo. I already had one. Miss Bonnie gave it to me when I let her in here 'bout ten minutes ago. Now that's mighty fine!"

"I know. I love fresh chocolate chip cookies," I mumbled as I munched down on one.

"No, I mean Miss Bonnie is mighty fine. I don't know how you ever got her to pay any attention to your sorry grill, but if you have any smarts at all, you won't let that one get away."

"Well, Dunston," I said, pretending to be taken aback, "thanks for the advice."

He nodded. "You're welcome."

Changing topics, I motioned for him to take a seat, and I sat down in the other vinyl visitor's chair. "Dunston, you've been here at First Church for a long time."

He nodded again. "That's right."

"Longer than most of the other current staff members?"

"That's right too," he answered with another nod.

"Then, you probably know more about what's happened within these church walls than just about anybody."

"I s'pose that's possible," he said. "But not everything. Only the Lord knows all that's gone down in this place."

"Okay. We've determined you've been here a very long time, have known many people, and probably know as much or even more about what has gone on here than anyone else, correct?"

He seemed flattered. "Well, I guess that's 'bout right."

"Then All-Knowing Dunston Jones, what can you tell me about _The_ _Black Toe Enigma?_ "

He seemed startled. "The black toe what?"

"Enigma. You know, the, uh, mystery or uh, puzzle— _The Black Toe Mystery_."

He stood up. "Do you mean that crazy folktale about the guy with the frozen foot?"

I also stood. "Well, yeah."

Dunston burst out laughing as he headed for the door. "Sorry, man. I gotta get back to work." I could hear him laughing all the way down the hall.

_Well, that didn't work out the way I'd planned._ But something struck me as a bit odd. Dunston was never in a rush to get back to work.

Ever.

### The Brouhaha

Wednesdays had become my odds-and-ends day. Wednesday morning was the best time to catch a few minutes with Fred Snooker. And, of course Wednesday morning always included the obligatory weekly staff meeting. It was also the one day of the week Bonnie and I could have lunch together. I would then spend the afternoon covering various ministry assignments Tom Applebee had assigned me that morning.

On this particular Wednesday, right before staff meeting was about to begin, Tom pulled me off to one side and asked me to set aside some time in the afternoon to visit Jeremy Cantor. He handed me a slip of paper with Jeremy's phone number and address. He casually added, "Be careful."

For months now, I had been doing funerals, making home and hospital visits, doing some counseling, and helping with benevolence cases. But I had never been warned to "be careful." It caught me completely off guard. _Why would he say that?_

In marched Dr. Jorgensen, and our weekly staff meeting started. Since it had become a known and accepted fact that Bonnie and I were dating, we would sit together during the first part of the meeting. At first, Thurm and friends ribbed us about it, but after a week or two, no one even seemed to notice us.

Bonnie and I had developed a special set of cryptic symbols to communicate during staff meetings. Using these silly doodles, we would make commentary on, satirize, or even filet the different people participating in the meeting. For instance, when Bernard Coggins would drone on and on about something while no one listened, Bonnie would draw a horizontal line with a big hook on one end. It conjured up the image of a vaudeville stage manager giving the hook to a failing actor and yanking him off stage. When Dr. Jorgenson would start randomly eliminating agenda items or cutting people off prematurely, one of us would draw a golf tee to represent a pending tee time he was up against. When Harry Simpkins would get his mouth way ahead of his brain, we would draw a picture of a kicking leg or just write _RLS_. The key to our secret language was to stow away our laughs, then relive them over lunch several hours later. Kind of like retelling or quoting the funny lines from a favorite movie while standing about with your friends. Some things are just funnier the second or third time around.

But this week Bonnie missed the real fireworks. About twenty minutes after the secretaries and directors had been dismissed, Harry Simpkins and Bob Stevens got into a first-class row. Thurm once told me these two mixed it up pretty good at least two or three times a year.

Noticing earlier how unkempt and sleep-deprived Harry looked, I had written _RLS_ on Bonnie's notepad. Maybe his wife had decided to kick him back after all these years. An hour or so later, about halfway through Bob's weekly budget/expense update, Harry erupted.

"Bob, my church debit card isn't working again," Harry huffed, obviously exasperated. "I waited in line twenty minutes yesterday to buy some choir music only to have my church debit card declined."

"Well, you know why, don't you?" Bob said with a smirk.

"No, Bob; why don't you tell me," Harry's sarcasm, sharp and pointed. "By the way," he said, turning to the other staff members, "is anyone else having problems with their church debit card?"

"No, Harry, they're not," Bob said curtly. "And the reason they're not is because _they_ follow the rules, unlike someone we all know and love."

Harry's face began to redden. "What are you talking about, Bob?"

"I'm talking about receipts and expense reports. You know, those pieces of paper you never bother to turn in?" His voice amping up with each word.

I sketched a small hammer on my agenda sheet. My father used to say that every toolbox has to have a hammer. Bob Stevens filled that role at First Church with no pretense. He hit hard and fast. Damage control would come later.

Harry stood up, leaning over the table toward Bob, waving his extra-large hands in the air. "I forget a receipt now and then, and you cut off my debit card without even telling me? Am I to understand that I was horribly embarrassed yesterday in front of about fifteen people, just so you could try to teach me some kind of obtuse lesson about your stupid procedures?!"

Harry was a big man, with big hands and a large mouth; physically, he could be extremely intimidating. Bob, on the other hand, was small in stature but tough as nails on the inside. And he would have none of Harry's bravado. Not one bit.

Bob leaned back in his chair. "Harry, why don't you just sit down and start following the rules, then we'll see if we can get your card reactivated."

Harry exploded. "Listen, Island Boy, I don't take this kind crap from anybody!"

Dr. Jorgensen had endured enough. "Harry, sit down. I'm requesting that you two stay after the meeting and work out your little problem. Let's move on. What is our next item on the agenda?"

"Our next agenda is our upcoming _Spirit of Grace_ conference," Tom Applebee answered, fighting back a smile.

"Well, that's ironic," someone mumbled. Instantly, the room broke into boisterous laughter, totally wiping away any leftover tension. Harry laughed the loudest, and even Bob Stevens attempted a smile.

A church staff is a lot like a nuclear family. There may be a lot of inherent stress, and even the occasional disagreement or two. But when all is said and done, mutual respect and purpose win out. And for the most part, everyone's got everyone else's back. True, even at First Church.

I met Bonnie for lunch at the Fourth Street hotdog stand. The weather was cool, but not cold. My mother would call it _sweater weather_. We ended up eating on a park bench on Main Street near the downtown mall. Following our new Wednesday tradition, we talked back through the facts and faux pas of the morning staff meeting. I gave her an animated play-by-play reconstruction of the Simpkins/Stevens brouhaha.

"I cannot believe that Harry called Bob _Island Boy!_ Oh, that's choice." She took a swig on her straw.

"It's the God's honest truth. Just ask Thurm. He'll confirm it."

"You know, it's amazing that Harry has kept his job all these years. If First Church were a pirate ship, any one of the other pirates would have already slit his throat."

"Interesting choice of analogies—First Church as a pirate ship." I smiled, "How far can we stretch that?"

"Let's see," Bonnie jumped right in. "Pirate ships usually have a captain with an inflated ego and well-developed sense of self-importance."

"Oh, that's good," I said. "My turn. Okay, pirate ships are known for collecting and hoarding gold."

"Oooh, that's good too! Let me think . . . how about, pirates are always looking to build or commandeer bigger ships?" She winced a little.

"No, I get it. That works. How about this—the pirates had a captain named Black Beard, and we have a deacon named _Black Toe_."

"Elmo!" she scolded abruptly. "Please, not that black toe stuff again."

Bonnie didn't share my enthusiasm for solving _The Black Toe_ _Enigma_. I don't know if it was a girl/guy thing or just a Bonnie/Elmo thing, but we didn't see eye-to-eye on the subject. But what do you do? I wasn't going to let my fascination with Old Frozen Foot hinder my relationship with Bonnie. On the other hand, I wasn't going to let Bonnie's indifference keep me from solving the puzzle. I just needed to be more careful not to cross the two streams.

"Bonnie, one more thing." I put my arm around her waist as we walked back toward the church.

She smiled back at me. "Sure."

"Please tell that loudmouth roommate of yours to be more discreet about you and me. I had to suffer through some rather personal interrogations about our relationship from both my seminary advisor and his fruity student assistant."

"Oh, Elmo, I'm sorry."

"No, no, I'm not upset. And it's not your fault. Just tell Peg to cease-and-desist, or I might be forced to put her on _The Rack of Pain_."

" _As you—_ "

I kissed her before she could finish as our Wednesday rendezvous came to a sweet close. _La fin._

Jeremy Cantor wasn't really active in our church or our Singles ministry, but he would show up on occasion. This had been his pattern for the last several years. Jeremy was different. He rarely smiled, but I wouldn't say he was sad. Evidently he'd been deep into hallucinogenic drugs at one time, but as far as I knew, he'd beaten his addiction several years ago. That experience or something equally intense left a discernable hole in his personality. He was never a problem, but the church had a hard time ministering to him or even getting through to him. Yet he kept coming back. Probably just lonely.

Jeremy liked me. He told me I was different from most ministers he'd been around, like I wasn't even a minister. I didn't know if that were good or bad. From the first time I'd met Jeremy, I'd felt led to get to know him and give him a little extra attention. He always seemed a bit out of place but earnestly wanting to belong.

So when Tom Applebee asked me to visit Jeremy, I accepted the assignment without hesitation. Granted, I had a check in my spirit due to Tom's unexpected warning, but I forged ahead anyway.

Jeremy had recently moved to the Lancashire Apartments which were located in a transitional part of the city. Probably not a good place to visit after dark, but in mid-afternoon, I didn't think twice about it. I'd been there once before with Louis Estrada, so I knew right where he lived—Apartment 217 on the second floor.

I was still thinking about Harry and Bob's tiff when I parked my car on the street and started making my way up the first flight of stairs. Approaching Jeremy's door, I could hear some type of New Age music playing inside. If I had to venture a guess, I'd say that it was Yanni—not my personal favorite. I knocked firmly on the door twice. He immediately responded.

"It's unlocked. Come on in."

Opening the door, I turned a quick left, then a quick a right, and entered his living room. Jeremy appeared relaxed, sitting in the middle of his couch, leaning back with his legs crossed. He had on a suit and tie, which I found strange since all I'd ever seen him in were jeans.

"Hey Jeremy."

He looked up. "Elmo. I'm glad it's you they sent over. Grab a seat."

I plopped down on the love seat. "What's with the suit? Did you have a job interview or something?"

"No, I was at the funeral home."

I sat up and leaned forward. "Did someone you know pass away?"

"Nah, I was just making arrangements."

"For your parents or a relative?"

"No, my parents both died when I was quite young."

"Then who—"

"I want you to have something," he said, cutting me off. He reached under his coffee table and pulled out one of those enormous white family Bibles they give you at the funeral homes. The kind that's so heavy you have to grab it with both hands. "I want you or the church to have this." He slid it across his coffee table to me.

I paused. "Jeremy it's beautiful, but I believe these are supposed to be kind of a family keepsake. To remind you of the person who died."

"Yeah, I know." He half smiled. "But I'm not gonna be needing it."

That's when I noticed it. On the couch beside Jeremy, a gun protruded out from under a throw pillow. A pistol of some kind. My heart stopped. I tried to force myself to stay calm, but I failed.

Jeremy looked genuinely concerned for me. "Elmo, what's the matter?"

Having never been trained for this scenario, I wasn't sure what to say. So I instinctively defaulted to being direct. "Jeremy, what's the gun for?"

"Oh, I don't know. I've been doing a lot of thinking lately."

"What kind of thinking?"

"You know, just thinking."

I had no idea what his intentions were. I didn't know if the gun were loaded. I didn't know his psychiatric history. He seemed so totally relaxed, not stressed in the least.

"Have you ever done this type of thinking before?"

"Not really."

"So, this is _new_ thinking?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

I almost asked what triggered these thoughts, but I caught myself. "When did you start thinking this way?"

"Not too long ago."

"Okay, _why_ did you start thinking this way?"

"If I tell you, you'll think it's stupid."

"Probably not. Try me."

"It's because of a girl."

"No, that's not stupid! Can you tell me what happened?"

"Well, we met at work. Her name is Gracie, and we really liked each other. I looked forward to seeing her every day. And then one day she was gone." Jeremy started to tear up, then he started to sob.

"Where did she go?"

"I don't know," he said between sobs.

I hurt for Jeremy. It was heartbreaking, and I didn't know what to say. So we just sat there in silence as he cried quietly.

A few moments later I heard the front door open, and in rushed a middle-aged woman I'd never seen before, followed close behind by Tom Applebee. I let out a sigh of relief. The women sat down on the couch next to Jeremy and gave him a big hug. He melted in her arms. I quickly reached across the coffee table and snatched the gun from under the pillow. I stood up and handed it to Tom Applebee, my hand shaking uncontrollably.

Later, out on the sidewalk, Tom and I pieced together what had happened. Tom put his hand on my shoulder. "Elmo, I am so very sorry about sending you into that situation alone. I should've known better, but I let myself get distracted by a church staff issue this morning and didn't fully think through my decision."

"Was the gun loaded?" I asked flatly, swallowing hard.

"No."

Taking a deep breath, I released the air slowly. "How did you know to come over when you did?"

"That lady is Jeremy's older sister. She raised him. The funeral home director called her and said Jeremy had just stopped by to ask about buying a cemetery plot. He'd listed his sister as the next-of-kin on the application, so they had her number. She was concerned and called the church. We got here as quickly as we could. Fortunately, it looks like you had it under control."

"Nothing could be further from the truth. I'm just seriously thanking the Lord I didn't witness a suicide . . . or get shot myself. I'll definitely have to go home and change my boxers before tonight's service."

Tom smiled. "Take the night off, Elmo. Tomorrow too."

"Thanks, Tom. I'll take you up on tonight, but tomorrow is my golf outing with the Pastor and Mr. Fitzsimons. After this, tomorrow should be a cakewalk."

"You're probably right. Then we'll see you Friday."

### The Echelon Country Club

Enjoying an absolutely gorgeous fall morning, I leaned against the trunk of my car waiting for Dr. Jorgensen to arrive. Eighteen holes of golf were just what I needed to clear my head after yesterday's traumatic event. And getting to play at the Echelon Country Club—icing on the cake.

Dr. Jorgensen was never early, but he was also never late. I found it uncanny. So at 8:00 right on the nose, his silver Lexus SE rolled into the staff parking lot.

The tinted window on his driver side slowly rolled down. "Good morning, Jenkins. Just throw your clubs in the trunk." The trunk slowly opened on his cue.

I loaded my clubs as instructed and shut the trunk, then ran around and hopped in the passenger side of his car. "Thank you, sir, for this invitation. This is a real treat for a lowly church intern."

"I'm glad you could come," he said as he patted me on the shoulder. "This course is a real treat for anyone who can manage to get on it. If it weren't for Smitty, even with everyone I know in this town, I wouldn't be able to play there. It's very exclusive."

"Man, that is exclusive. _Uber_ -exclusive." I laughed. "Thank you, again."

"You're welcome, but you should really thank Smitty. He's picking up the tab for both of us." He pulled out onto Main Street and headed east. "Tom Applebee tells me you had quite an experience with Jeremy Cantor yesterday afternoon. He said considering the situation, you handled yourself very well."

"Whew," I exhaled, shaking my head. "Definitely a learning experience. God was gracious, and what a relief that Tom got there when he did. What will happen to Jeremy?"

"His sister checked him into the psychiatric ward at St. Michael's Hospital. They'll evaluate him for a few days, then he'll probably move in with her for a while and start regular counseling. I would also suspect they'll set him up on some type of ongoing medication."

I buckled my seatbelt. "I got the impression that whole scenario yesterday was caused by the sudden loss of his girlfriend at work."

"Unfortunately that's not the real story." He continued. "The girl at work had recently been transferred to a different department at a different location because she'd filed a harassment complaint against Jeremy. There _was_ no relationship, except in his mind. It's really a very sad situation."

"Well, it was obviously very real to him. I feel for him. Have you seen this type of thing before? You know—guns, potential suicide, that kind of thing?"

"Anyone who's in full-time ministry for any length of time will have his share of those touch-and-go situations. It can't be avoided. There are a lot of needy people out there, and sometimes they just don't know how to deal with their feelings.

"We have a couple in our church right now, super people. I'll call them John and Betty. I consider them friends. John is a dry alcoholic, hadn't had a drinking problem in over twenty years. Last summer, I got a call from Betty asking me to come over ASAP. She said John had a slip-up and they were in a big fight, and she needed me to help with him. So I hustled over there and found them screaming at each other. John was very inebriated. I got them to sit down and stop the yelling, then I tried to get to the bottom of the problem. After about five minutes, things seemed to be calming down when all of a sudden John pulled out a double barrel shotgun from under the couch. First he pointed it at Betty and then at me, and back and forth for what seemed like an hour of pure panic. Finally, their precious eight-year-old daughter, who was awakened by the commotion, came out of her room and said, 'Daddy, what's going on?' John took one look at his daughter, put down the gun and said, 'Pastor, I'm so sorry.' The good news is, Betty forgave him, he got back into an AA group, recommitted his life to God, and they turned it around. As far as I know, he hasn't had a single relapse since."

"Were you afraid?" I asked.

"You bet I was afraid! I sat there praying and re-confessing every sin I could remember. I mentally put my house in order and started trying to wrap my brain around the idea that this could be my last day on Earth. But I also had the assurance that no matter what happened, my future was secure in God's hands. That's one big advantage we have over non-believers—we know the future is secure no matter what happens to our bodies. Understanding that simple fact makes situations like the one both you and I went through more manageable." He paused for a long moment. "But don't be too concerned about it, Jenkins. Those types of scenarios are really quite rare."

Now there was some good news.

I guess I didn't fully comprehend what Dr. Jorgensen meant when he used the term _exclusiv_ e in referencing the Echelon Country Club. Not knowing what to expect, I wasn't prepared for the level of service we received. As we pulled into the main entrance, we had to pass through a security gate. The security guard gave both of us a special navy-blue urethane wristband. Each had our last name and the date embossed on it in white raised letters. Dr. Jorgensen said all guests are required to wear these wristbands while at Echelon. We drove down a winding road lined with huge oak trees for about a mile or so, before dead-ending into a horseshoe driveway that curled up to the front of the plantation-style clubhouse. A gigantic front porch stretched across the entire width of the building. White rockers graced the porch, swaying randomly in the breeze. Beautiful flowers, chrysanthemums, sedum, and aster were everywhere.

Dr. Jorgensen pulled his car to the designated spot, and we got out. A valet took the car from there. An attendant greeted us with frosted glasses of fresh-squeezed orange juice and informed us that Mr. Fitzsimons was waiting for us in the guest lounge. Once inside, we walked past the entrance to the Pro Shop. I noticed a small counter sign: _Guest greens fees billed to member's account._ It's a good thing Smitty was paying, because I would've had to sell my car to do so.

Smitty sat at a small table in front of a large window overlooking a pond with three identical fountains, and of course, it was surrounded with colorful flower beds. He stood as we arrived.

"Horace, Ellington—top of the day to you, gents!"

We all shook hands. Dr. Jorgensen had told me this wasn't Smitty's regular club; he just kept a membership here for business reasons since it was close to downtown.

Smitty smiled. "Elmo, I'm so glad you could join us today. It should be a great day for golf. And the Thursday Mediterranean Buffet is always the best lunch of the week."

"Thank you so much for inviting me, sir. I hope I don't embarrass myself too much on the course."

"Don't concern yourself with that," he quipped. "Old Horace is a pretty good golfer, but Harty and I are high handicappers. Speaking of Harty, he's running a little late this morning, so he'll meet us at the first tee. Elmo, you'll be riding with Harty. Horace and I have a special golf cart that's retrofitted with ash trays for our cigars."

"Great," I said, meaning it on several different levels.

After a plate of fruit, Gouda cheese, and a croissant, we were escorted to the Guest Locker Room. We each had our own locker; our names engraved in white on a navy blue nameplate. When I opened the locker, there were my old golf shoes. They'd not only been cleaned up, but polished and outfitted with new soft spikes and new shoe strings. They hadn't looked that good since I bought them several years ago. Also in the locker, a new Echelon golf towel with my name stitched on it in blue. Plus a dozen complimentary Titleist golf balls with my name printed on them above the Echelon logo. To top it off (so to speak), they'd also provided an Echelon Country Club fitted golf hat. How they got my hat size, I'll never know. I don't even know what it is. I put on my golf shoes and new hat, grabbed the towel and golf balls, and followed Dr. Jorgensen out to the cart area. Two carts awaited us, our clubs securely loaded on the back. They'd been cleaned, of course. Even the golf bags sparkled.

I felt like Prince Charles. Everywhere I turned someone asked, "May I help you with that, Mr. Jenkins?" or "Is there anything I can get for you, Mr. Jenkins?" I hadn't been this pampered since I was in diapers. To be honest, all the attention got old pretty fast. Maybe the rich and famous just get used to it after a while.

Sure enough, Hartzel "Harty" Wiley Smith IV was waiting for us on the first tee, a Starbucks _Venti Caramel Macchiato_ in his hand.

"Hey boys! Sorry I'm late, but I just can't get cranked up in the morning without a big ol' cup of coffee with lots of sweet stuff in it." Harty smiled really big then took a big chug.

The upper-crusters didn't seem bothered that he was late. Not in the least. These rich folks sure knew how to relax.

"Harty, have you met Elmo Jenkins, our current church intern?" Smitty asked.

"No I haven't, though I've probably seen you around the church." He smiled as he shook my hand.

"Nice to meet you," I said.

"Looks like it's you and me today against the tobacco lobby," he cracked. "Maybe we'll get lucky and their brown lungs will slow them down a bit."

Harty didn't smoke, but you could tell he loved to eat. You might say Harty had a _hardy_ appetite. He weighed at least two hundred and fifty pounds, maybe more, and stood only about five feet eight inches tall. I would guess he was in his early forties. Dr. Jorgensen had told me he was into commercial real estate and quite good at it. I imagined he brought a lot of his clients out here to the Echelon Country Club to seal the deal. I bet it worked.

Harty turned toward me, whispering so the others couldn't hear him. "You any good?"

I whispered back. "Sometimes, but not always. I'm kind of streaky."

"Listen. I'm going to challenge these cigar-sucking rubes to a little contest just to get their blood pressure up a bit. Don't worry about the money. I've got it covered, win or lose."

"Okay," I whispered. _No pressure. Yikes!_

Harty turned back toward the other cart, speaking louder this time. "Me and the kid here would like to challenge you cigar lovers to a little wager."

Smitty stepped out of the cart, his stogie tucked in the corner of his mouth. "Bring it on. What's the bet?"

"Our cart against your cart, an eighteen-hole best ball match, one hundred dollars a person, winners take all."

Smitty smiled broadly and looked back at Horace. Horace looked at me. I nodded. He then nodded at Smitty who turned back to Harty. "Let's do it."

I promptly shanked my first drive sideways into the parking lot causing Harty to choke on a mouthful of his macchiato. Thankfully, after a few holes I settled down and we played competitively.

Completing the front nine, we were only one hole down. I noticed the cigars were now nowhere to be found. The other cart seemed to be paying a lot more attention to the match. Conversely, in our cart, Harty and I were more relaxed and getting to know each other a little better.

"Harty, I've been told you're related to the infamous Deacon Wiley Smith."

"Yep, he was my great-great-grandfather, but he died long before I was born."

"Fred Snooker told me all about _The Black Toe Enigma_ there at First Church. He said Wiley Smith is a central character in that legend. I'm sure you're familiar with _The Black Toe_ story?"

Harty chuckled. "Oh yes. I know all about it, believe me."

"Well, Fred has challenged me to solve the puzzle, so I'm hoping you can shed some light on the whole thing."

"I can solve if for you in four words—a bunch of hooey."

"Harty," I pleaded, "I'm keeping us in this golf match. The least you can do is throw me a few bones about _The_ _Black Toe_ thing."

"All right, all right." He stopped the cart. "Here's the straight poop. These are the only verifiable facts in the whole thing. One—my great-great-grandfather Wiley Smith did get lost while hunting in a blizzard, and when they found him, he was near death and delirious. Two—he was Chairman of the Deacons at the time. Three—he was never quite the same after that. Four—he was aided during the storm by someone, but because of the trauma, he could never remember who it was. Five—he was a key a leader at First Church for many years, and during that time accepted advice and counsel from many different people, most of which was given in confidence. Six—as he got older, he suffered a stroke making his speech slurred and hard to understand. The stroke also made him a bit crazy. Seven—it was during the last period of his life that _The Black Toe_ thing got started."

"Wow," I blurted out. "It almost sounds as if you had to write a paper on the topic for a college class."

"Close. A speech for my Public Speaking class. Got an A-plus on it," he said with pride. "Now can we get back to the task at hand and focus on taking these boys down?"

"Yes we can," I said. "Onward to the next tee."

Finding my stride on the back nine, I started parring every hole. By the 14th hole, the match was all tied up. Smitty and Pastor made a great team. If one messed up, the other one got a par. My partner Harty was all over the course. He hadn't helped our team at all on the back nine. He needed his dozen Titleists and a few more the way he was losing golf balls, but it didn't seem to bother him. I actually quit paying attention to his shots as I focused on the match, trying to keep us in it. When we arrived at the 18th tee, the match was still all even.

The 18th hole was a short par 4 with a lake down the left side of the fairway and dense woods along the right. Smitty went first and promptly hit two balls into the lake. He called it quits for the day, and went back to his cart for a few last puffs on his cigar. Dr. Jorgensen hit a good drive, but pushed it a little right and it kicked into the trees. I'd been driving well most of the day and piped this one right down the middle of the fairway. Harty was the last to tee off, hitting a big banana slice that started out way over the lake but curved back across the hole, clipped a tree, and bounced back onto the fairway. For his second shot, he hit a low rolling ball that ended up about ten yards short of the green. Dr. Jorgensen was partially behind a tree and had to play out short of the green, ending up about fifty yards away.

I held all the cards. All I had to do was put this hundred-yard wedge shot somewhere in the middle of the green, two-putt, and we would more than likely win. Unfortunately, my adrenaline level was too high, and I hit my shot over the green and behind some shrubs. Dr. Jorgensen then calmly stepped up and hit his third shot landing it about a foot away from the hole. He'd have a tap-in par. In about two minutes, the whole situation had reversed itself. Now Harty and I were scrambling to get a par and not lose the match.

Assessing my unplayable position behind the shrubs, I didn't see Harty step up quickly and hit his chip from in front of the green, but I heard his holler a few seconds later. That rascal had chipped in for a birdie to win the match. I looked up and saw him doing cartwheels across the green. Not an easy task for a man with his build. Dr. Jorgensen just shook his head as he walked back to his cart. I couldn't see Smitty from where I was standing, but I imagined he was probably eating the rest of his still-smoldering cigar. Harty ran over and gave me a big bear hug nearly squeezing the air out of me. What a finish. I figured Smitty would never invite me back out for golf again.

As we were turning in the golf carts, Smitty walked over and handed Harty two crisp one hundred dollar bills and patted him on the back. No words were spoken. The big guy had carded a pretty ugly golf score at well over one hundred, but he made the one shot that counted to win the match. I love golf for stuff like that. I'm convinced that's why so many bad players keep on playing. It takes just one good shot like that to bring them back again, to waste four more hours and spend a lot of their hard-earned money.

Harty walked over to me sporting a huge grin. He put the two one hundred dollar bills together, folded them once, and handed them both to me. "Take your girlfriend out for a nice dinner. You just made my week."

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"Oh yeah," he grinned, slapping me on the back.

We had a good laugh. The kind of laugh that only the winners enjoy.

The Mediterranean Buffet was as good as Smitty had bragged it would be. It featured a variety of shellfish dishes, many sautéed in different wine sauces, complemented by generous mounds of fresh fruits, numerous cheeses, and hot-out-of-the-oven breads. Harty had an appointment, so he couldn't join us for lunch. His loss. Dr. Jorgensen, Smitty and I were seated at a table on the rear terrace of the clubhouse that looked out over the 9th green and surrounding lakes. It was beautiful, and I was hungry. We loaded our plates, said grace, and began the pleasant task of eating the mouthwatering food. Discussion over the main course remained light. We shared a good laugh over Harty's golfing skills and concurrent antics. After the dessert cart had delivered its best and the cappuccino had been served, the conversation turned more serious.

"Elmo," Smitty began, "you've probably conjectured that there was more to today's invitation than just a round of golf."

"Yes sir, I had a feeling that was the case."

"You're a sharp young man, Elmo. I like that about you. When will you be finishing your degree at Harvest Morgan Seminary?"

"This internship at First Church is my last requirement. I've already completed all my class work. So unless I get a bad evaluation from Tom Applebee, I'll be graduating in December."

Smitty laughed as he glanced over at Dr. Jorgensen. "From what Horace and Tom tell me, you're doing a great job. I'm sure that will be reflected in your final evaluation."

I found it interesting and a bit disconcerting that Smitty was doing all the talking while Dr. Jorgensen just sat there passively. Then again, maybe I was misinterpreting the situation. Maybe Dr. Jorgensen had instructed Smitty what to do and say, and Smitty was merely following orders. Similar to how Tom Applebee ran the church staff meetings while everyone knew that Dr. Jorgensen was really the one in charge. A curious leadership style, almost like that of a CEO or even a monarch. That thought gave me a chill.

Smitty continued. "First Church is a great church. Has been for over a century. That said, those of us in leadership are concerned the old girl is starting to show her age to some degree. Our membership is aging. To be frank, we feel our methodology and approach to the local church in today's world just isn't as effective as it used to be. We've all suffered through enough Peter Drucker-type seminars to understand how large organizations go through bell curve life cycles."

Did he say Peter Drucker?

"Horace and I and our other leaders have discussed this thoroughly, and we've decided we will not idly sit by and watch First Church go the way of the dinosaurs. We want to be proactive and help get the First Church ship back on course, to remain effective in our town and in our world."

I was reeling from metaphor overload, desperately needing another hit of coffee with two shots of espresso this time.

"Elmo, let me get straight to the point," Smitty continued. "After you graduate, we would like you to consider joining our church staff full-time." He paused, watching to see how I would react.

His statement caught me totally off guard, and it probably showed. "Well, thank you sir. But in what capacity?"

"The key word for our church's health into the future is _transition_. If you agree to join our staff, we'll be creating a new position just for you—Assistant to the Pastor." Your sole responsibility will be to research and oversee a First Church transition strategy designed to take our church into the future. It won't be easy, but we feel as though you have the skill set and personality necessary for the job."

"Wow." And I meant it. "Mr. Fitzsimons, I'm honored that you'd even consider me for any position at First Church, much less one of such importance. I know Dunston Jones is retiring, and I thought maybe that was the position you might be offering me."

Smitty turned toward Dr. Jorgensen with a puzzled look.

"The old janitor who's retiring next month," Dr. Jorgensen explained. Then they both laughed

"To be honest," I continued, "it's a lot to think about."

Dr. Jorgensen took over for Smitty. "We aren't expecting you to give us an answer today or even for a while. We just wanted you to start thinking about it and praying about the possibility. You would be answering directly to me, and you'd have a lot of freedom and resources available to you. The bottom line is, either First Church starts reaching and assimilating younger folks into the life of our church, or there won't _be_ a First Church to worry about twenty-five years from now."

I promised to pray about it and get back to them in a few weeks. God had just laid a huge opportunity in my lap, but I wasn't sure I was up to the task. Fortunately, I had time to get some good counsel. Dr. De Villa would be no help whatsoever. But I could call my home church pastor, and I would ask for Fred Snooker's sage advice on the idea. I also wanted to run it by Bonnie and get her thoughts. In the short time I'd been around Bonnie, I'd already discovered her to be quite wise for her age and worth listening to.

### The Gaffe

"HELP! Somebody please help!"

Bonnie was trapped in a car upside down with water rising all around it. Two of us tried to free her—me and Johnny Moran. But we needed help! As I scrambled around trying to find a way to get Bonnie out, I thought, _This is so odd. I haven't seen Johnny Moran since I was in junior high school_. In fact, he still looked like he did in junior high. Then I realized that Bonnie wasn't trapped in an automobile—it was some sort of train or subway passenger car. When I looked closer, it wasn't even Bonnie. It was an old friend of mine named Marlene. From in the distance, I could hear this ringing sound. It would ring, pause, then ring again, getting louder and louder each time. I was dazed and confused and getting more confused. The rising water, the loud ringing, the screams from Bonnie, or Marlene or whomever it was . . . louder, higher, louder . . .

BAM! I woke up in a rush to the sound of my phone ringing.

"Yeah?" I yawned into the phone while glancing at my clock. It read 7:30. _On a Saturday morning? This had better be good_.

"Elmo, this is Juliann. Pastor Tom asked me to call all the ministerial staff requesting them to be at church for an emergency meeting at 9:00 this morning in the Executive Boardroom."

I yawned again, bigger this time. "Wow, the EBR? Someone must've died or been arrested or something."

"I really don't know what's up, Elmo." Juliann sounded way too chipper for this early on a Saturday. "Gotta run."

"Wait, wait—Juliann, could you do me a favor? Would you mind asking Pastor Tom to roll the meeting back to, say 11:00? After all, it _is_ a Saturday morning, for Methuselah's sake."

"Come on, sleepyhead. Rise and shine," she said with her signature giggle. "I have a half-dozen more calls to make. See ya."

As I hung up, I got ticked. We get one morning off a week and now this.

"What could this possibly be all about?" I grumbled as I dragged my dog-tired carcass toward the shower. And I wasn't about to shave. If they had a problem with it, they'd just have to get over it.

I'd only been in the Executive Boardroom on one other occasion—just a brief stop on my first day guided tour with Tom Applebee. But since that day, I'd heard many a tall tale concerning the "goings on" inside this hallowed room. I had no idea how accurate these stories were, but if you accepted them all as totally valid, the EBR had to be one of the most important rooms in the country—no, make that _the world_.

I arrived early at 8:45, very surprised to be the first one there. If it hadn't been for a hand-drawn sign ( _This Way_ with an arrow to the left and a pink happy face—thank you, Juliann), I would've thought I was in the wrong building. To get to the EBR, you had to first navigate the Deacons Lounge. Its polished oak door stood open with another one of Juliann's cheery directional signs taped to it. I fished around the Deacons Lounge hoping to score a strong cup of hot coffee, but came up empty. On the bar countertop, Juliann had provided chilled apple juice box drinks and slices of raisin bread. I kid you not. Some poor schmuck was going to marry her one day for her great looks, then regret his decision the first time she prepared food for him.

Snatching up a juice box, I headed for the EBR and plopped down on one of the perimeter chairs. Over the next fifteen minutes, they all trickled in, most with coffee in hand from Starbucks or McDonald's or wherever.

Note to self: when Juliann is in charge of refreshments, pick up a cup of coffee on the way in.

And for the record, I didn't notice anyone gnawing on a piece of raisin bread.

As expected, Dr. Jorgensen arrived precisely at 9:00 with Smitty Fitzsimons in tow. I casually glanced around the room taking inventory of those in attendance. It appeared to be the entire ministerial-level staff of the church, except—uh oh—no Bernard Coggins. My mind darted back to the incident at the staff retreat when Dr. Jorgensen and Smitty were obviously discussing something about poor Bernard during a prayer. Perhaps the fruit of that discussion had ripened and fallen from the tree, taking old Bernard down with it. Dr. Jorgensen's opening sentence immediately confirmed my suspicions.

"We've asked Bernard to clean his office," Dr. Jorgensen said with a touch of sadness.

I expected an audible gasp or some collective show of emotion by the staff, but no one made a sound. _Very odd._ Everyone in the room knew the phrase _to clean his office_ meant he'd been canned, but they were all so stoic about it. I was taken aback.

To fully comprehend the workings at First Church, you had to develop the astute ability to read between the lines. Direct orders were communicated both verbally and in writing, but the real agenda could most often be found in a nuance or subtlety. An integral part of this intrigue included the liberal use of euphemisms. For instance, any use in any context of the word _stragglers_ meant we'd all better start getting our tails to meetings on time. A staff member's name used in the same sentence with the phrase _not-cuttin'-it_ meant he was in serious jeopardy of being asked to _clean his office_. If a staff member weren't pulling his weight in a particular ministry area, the entire ministerial staff would get a general "pep talk" on the subject with the clear implication that someone in the room was _not-cuttin'-it._ Each staff member then had to discern if he or she were the culprit and what needed to be done to _get it fixed,_ another oft-used code phrase.

Why things weren't more straightforward puzzled me, but it probably had something to do with the First Church mystic. The place had something of a _secret society_ ambience about it.

So everyone sitting in the EBR immediately knew that Bernard Coggins had been fired and was long gone.

When I first started my internship, Thurm had explained the exit protocol First Church used when terminating a staff member. When I heard the procedure delineated, I assumed it had been borrowed from the corporate world. Of note, Dr. Jorgensen never participated in any staff dismissals. By staying disconnected from the process, he reasoned he could still be available to the individual as their pastor if needed. The great irony rested in the fact that _he_ had been the one who initiated the dismissal proceedings in most cases.

First, the staff member's supervisor and the Chairman of the Personnel Committee would call in the poor chap for a meeting. In this meeting, he would be advised of his termination and the reasons why, most commonly a sub-par job evaluation (translated – _not-cuttin'-it)_. He would also be informed that no appeal process would be offered. They would then produce a severance check based on the fired employee's tenure and a "termination agreement." Of course, for the fired employee to receive the check, he had to first sign the agreement. By signing the agreement, the staff member pledged not to pursue legal action against the church. The fired staff member always took the check.

He was then escorted off the church property, with instructions to come back the following day _after hours_ when a Personnel Committee member would stay with him as he cleaned out his office before permanently leaving the premises. It seemed cold and efficient, but it was actually designed to minimize the fallout with the rest of the staff. The severance checks were usually quite generous. The staff leadership made themselves available to help the terminated staff member find another position in another church better suited to his skills and abilities.

The fact that we had all been called in to the EBR meant this was no normal dismissal. We all liked Bernard and knew him to be a diligent worker, faithfully covering some of the most tedious and difficult ministry tasks. Which made his dismissal all the more puzzling.

"Friends, I'm sorry we had to call you back down here on a Saturday," Smitty began. "But it was imperative that we have this meeting before tomorrow's services, so you would all be fully informed in case you're queried about Bernard's sudden departure. I'm not at liberty to share the reason for Bernard's dismissal, but I can say that it was not the result of poor work performance or because of a sexual indiscretion. Bernard has some personal issues to work out, and we will be helping him get the necessary counseling to deal with those issues."

Thurm, seated next to me, pointed to a doodle he'd drawn in his Daytimer. It looked like a couple of horses running in tandem. I had no idea what it meant.

Smitty continued. "If you are asked about Bernard, please simply respond that he left for personal reasons and we wish him well. Nothing more, nothing less. Any questions?"

Harry jumped right in. "Who'll be covering his responsibilities, like the Benevolent ministry and such?"

"Fred Snooker has graciously agreed to fill in until we find a replacement for Bernard."

_Yeah right_ , I thought to myself. _They either offered Fred a boatload of cash or kidnapped his beloved parakeet Peppy, threatening to kill the bird unless he agreed._

I realized Fred wasn't at the meeting. I figured he might be mapping out an escape route across the Canadian border with Peppy in tow, even as Smitty was speaking.

Finally, Dr. Jorgensen closed us in prayer, we filed out of the Executive Boardroom, and that was that. I grabbed a couple pieces of raisin bread to eat on the way home— _yes I do eat raisin bread_. I rode the elevator down with Thurm.

"What's with the horse doodling?" I asked with a mouth full of raisin bread.

He looked and me and somberly said, "They caught Bernard at the horse track."

In the silence that followed as the elevator quietly descended, no horses reared off in the distance, and no one even considered laughing.

The Sunday morning church services went well. Bernard's sudden departure created quite a buzz, but the damage appeared to be contained. Crossing the street to my car, I heard someone call out my name. I turned to see Tom Applebee waving me to come back. Crossing back over, I met him under the side porte cochere.

"Elmo, we just realized Bernard was scheduled to handle the baptisms at the evening service tonight. I need you to cover those. Is that okay?"

I gulped. "Well, uh, sure. When and where?"

"Just be at the baptismal room at 5:30. Erlene Markham will meet you there to assist. She does these every week, so she can fill you in on what to do. I'm sure you'll do fine. Oh, and by the way, don't wear long sleeves."

He disappeared back into the church before I could tell him I'd never actually performed an official baptism before. Oh well.

One of the required pastoral training courses at the seminary dealt with the practical skills necessary to be a pastor. I'm not sure if it had an official title or not, but I called it the "Dip 'em, Marry 'em, & Bury 'em" Guide to Pastoral Care. Part of the instruction included two full class periods in a swimming pool to practice baptizing each other. I'm not referring to the aspersion/sprinkling routine. No, we're talking a full-court body slam down under the water, over and over again. Drowning each other for the Lord, amen!

Believe it or not, to immerse someone correctly is actually a fine art. First, you have to decide if you'll take them down to the right or to the left. Contrary to popular myth, this has nothing to do with a church's theology. It's more of a personal preference. I'm a switch-baptizer—I go both ways, though I have a better percentage of success from the right side.

It's very important to instruct the individual being baptized to bend their knees when they go under. Otherwise, both of you may end up on the steps out of sight from the congregation. It's the old baptismal disappearing act. Another problem occurs when some people are more buoyant than others. What if they don't go all the way under? What if the face or nose stays dry? Do you have to do it again? Will this impact their spiritual walk? These are questions I never found answers for.

Back at my apartment, I kicked off my shoes and slacks and fell back on my bed staring at the crack in my ceiling. I'd heard horror stories about baptisms going awry. I didn't want my first experience to be added to that Top Ten list. I briefly considered calling in sick, but eventually decided to forge ahead and, in the famous words of Michael Jordan, "just do it." It couldn't be that tough. I figured there might be one, maybe two people show up to be baptized. Surely, I could do that without screwing up.

As instructed, I showed up at 5:30 in the baptismal room. Erlene showed me the booklet given to everyone who comes to be baptized, highlighting the major points she would be going over when the candidates arrived. What she neglected to tell me was tonight's number of scheduled baptisms—seventeen! A modern-day First Church record.

After Erlene's brief but informative talk, _(I kept praying she wouldn't curse)_ the guys headed off to the men's dressing room and the ladies to theirs. Fortunately we had plenty of baptismal robes. I located the special stall just for pastors in the back of the men's dressing room. There, I found the waders. Whereas the folks being baptized were required to wear a swimsuit or a T-shirt and shorts under the baptismal robe, the pastors usually wore fishing waders over their clothes, so they could quickly get back to the service after the baptisms were done. Unfortunately, no one had bothered to inform me about the small, pinhole leak in the wader's left boot. So I simply slipped off my shoes and jumped into the heavy rubber pants, topping it off with the official white pastor's gown used specifically for this function.

According to established procedure, the minister doing the baptisms goes into the water first, and makes a few general comments to the congregation before he invites down the first person to be baptized. At Tom's cue from the platform, I slowly waded into the water and took my position. The house lights dimmed as the baptistry lights were brought up. About halfway through my opening comments, I realized I had two problems. First, I immediately began to feel my left sock get squishy as the left boot of my waders began slowly filling with water. The second and perhaps more critical problem was the water in the baptistry. It was nowhere near warm. Not exactly ice-cold, but definitely cool. Someone had forgotten to turn on the water heater in the baptistry, most likely one of Bernard Coggins' jobs as overseer of the Baptism ministry. Or perhaps I was the victim of one of Erlene's infamous and often bizarre practical jokes. Either way I quickly calculated that the cool water probably wouldn't be that big of a problem for those getting baptized. After the initial shock, they'd only be in the water for a minute or less. It might even add some energy to the proceedings.

On the other hand, I would be standing in less than comfortable water temperatures for at least fifteen minutes or more. I wondered if hypothermia would come into play. I could see tomorrow's headline: _First Church Intern Drowns While Performing Baptismal Service._ Then there would be a mug shot of Erlene Markham with the caption explaining she was last seen boarding a plane for Montenegro . . .

Alas, in the end it wasn't the cold water or the leaky waders that made this event memorable. No, it was my ever-dependable bad habit of screwing up my words when under pressure. Actually, I'd performed like a champ up until the last person. And then, well . . .

The seventeenth person to be baptized was Katie Cotese. Katie was the twenty-one year old daughter of one of the newer couples at First Church, Burt and Marion Cotese. Katie had flagrantly flown through the rebellious teen years but recently turned her life around. She was now actively involved in our Singles ministry under the watchful eye of Louis Estrada. Katie was a super young lady. But there was one unique characteristic that made her stand out—literally. Katie was eight months pregnant.

By the time Katie came down the baptistry steps, I had no feeling remaining in my left leg below the knee. Not even phantom pain. I felt like Captain Ahab in search of his missing peg leg. The gown hid Katie's bulging abdomen, but most folks in the church knew about her pregnancy and her single status. They were glad she had turned her life around and started attending church, and thankful she was going to keep her baby.

I reached out and took her hand, helping her into position.

"Our last candidate tonight is Katie Cotese. Many of you know Katie and her parents, Burt and Marion." I turned to face her. "Katie, have you accepted Jesus as your Lord and Savior?"

Katie smiled at me and then at her parents sitting out in the congregation. "Yes, I have."

I was cold, I was sore, and I was ready to wrap this thing up. I took a deep breath. "Katie, my sister in Christ, I now _pronounce_ you—"

I stopped mid-sentence. A wave of quiet, astonished laughter rolled quickly across the sanctuary. I hung my head momentarily, disbelieving my own gaffe. "Uh, I mean . . . Katie, I now _baptiz_ _e_ you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit." And I dunked her.

As she came up out of the water, the organ kicked in with _Blessed Assurance,_ and we escaped stage left.

"Katie, I am _so_ sorry! I—"

"Don't say another word, Elmo," she said, cutting me off. "It was an honest mistake, and it's no big deal." She gave me a big hug and headed off to the ladies locker room to change.

I really appreciated her attitude, but I knew it would not be so easily forgotten by my co-workers or the church membership in general. I would be ribbed about this for weeks or even months.

It would be included in my obituary one day. I just knew it.

### The Pity Party

Monday morning arrived. I planned to lay low trying to minimize the abuse I would receive because of my "I now pronounce you" mistake **.** I hoped Bernard's surprise departure would provide me some cover. Knowing that Juliann would not be a problem, I walked right in the front door intending to sweep by my mail slot then slither up the back way to my office.

"Buenos Dias, Senorita Juliann," I greeted without breaking stride. "Abra la puerta, por favor."

"Ah Elmo," she said pushing the buzzer to open the door. "You know I don't know Spanish."

"I think you know more than you think you know. Gracias!" I dove into the break room, pleased to find it void of any other staff members. The one correspondence in my bottom slot was from Louis Estrada. He asked me to drop by his office first thing. _Oh boy, here we go._ I winked at Juliann as I snuck out of the break room and around the corner toward Louis's first floor office. His door was cracked, so I knocked then stuck my head in.

"Don't tell me Katie's parents have demanded my head on a platter."

Louis looked puzzled. "What? Uh . . . oh. No, not at all. Though that was an unfortunate slip of the tongue. I also heard they forgot to heat the water for you. Tough first baptism, huh?"

"You aren't just kidding." We both laughed though mine was a bit forced. "What can I do for you this morning, Louis?"

He motioned for me to take a seat. "Since you've participated a few times with our young singles, you know what a great group of people they are. As long as I plan structured events with plenty of supervision, everything goes well. But to be honest, there's a real lack of leadership from within the group. Normally, that's manageable, but every once in a while something comes along that requires someone from within the group to step up and take charge. The annual First Church Fall Festival Skit Night is one of those events. As you know, each ministry age group of the church is supposed to perform a ten-minute sketch that Sunday evening. I've been waiting for one of the young singles to jump in, but so far I've come up empty. So I'm asking if you'd consider standing in the gap and pulling this thing together."

I leaned back in my chair and thought for a long moment. "Skit night is what—two Sundays away?"

"That's correct."

"And the sketch only has to be ten minutes long?

"Correct again."

"Do you have a script?"

"No."

"Is there a theme?"

"Yes, _The Ten Virgins_."

"What?!" I about fell over backward in my chair.

Louis laughed boisterously. "I'm just joking. The topic is yours to pick."

I regrouped. "I know—we can do a sketch on the rapture and call it, _Up, Up and Away._ We could have several singles planted in the audience tied to black ropes and at the given time, have them slowly start rising into the air _._ "

Louis didn't laugh. "Now, don't get too carried away." He missed his own pun. "This is to be performed in front of the entire church family and respectful of all views on eschatology."

Now I laughed out loud. "Where's your sense of humor? I was kidding. Really! I tell you what, Louis old buddy. I'll do this, but you owe me lunch at the Executive Club across the street."

He grinned. "Well Elmo, I believe in some parts of the country they call that _extortion_."

I smiled back. "Yes, they do, and it's darn good work if you can get it."

This time we both laughed.

When I finally got to _The Closet,_ I found a note pinned to my chair.

You can't hide forever, Waterboy.

— _Thurm_

_I guess it's inevitable._ I knew I'd have to suffer grief from Thurm on this baptism thing, so I decided to just get it over with. I would take my medicine like a man. I headed toward the south stairwell that led down to his office.

Before hitting the stairs, I made a brief stop at Fred Snooker's office. Fred wasn't in, but his door was unlocked. I decided to leave him a note asking him what would be a good time for us to get together. I needed about thirty minutes or so. I wanted to discuss more about _The Black Toe Enigma_ , but I also wanted to ask him about the rift between him and Dr. De Villa. Using Thurm's technique, I pinned my note to his chair, then quietly closed his door. I stepped back into the hallway and headed for the south stairs.

Thurm hung up his phone just as I got to his office. He looked as if he'd just been told his mother had died.

"Thurm, what's the matter?"

He looked ashen. "Do you mind shutting the door?"

I closed the door then took a seat on his couch. "What's going on?"

He came around his desk and sat in his wingback chair. "That was Alise. Evidently, she wants to call it quits."

"What do you mean, call it quits? You mean breaking up? What's the deal? You guys are perfect for each other."

Thurm let out a tired sigh." Well, that's kind of what I thought too, but she sees it differently. This has actually been coming for a few weeks now. As a thick-headed, card-carrying member of the male gender, I just thought if I ignored the problem it would take care of itself."

I sat up on the front of the couch. "If you don't mind me asking, what's the problem?"

"Elmo, you're one of my best friends, and I know I can trust you. But I still need to say this. Please don't share any of what I tell you, even with Bonnie. I'm still hoping to turn it around, so I don't want to do or say anything that might further complicate the situation."

"I promise anything we talk about will not leave this office. I would expect the same from you if the scenario were reversed. So what's going on?"

"Well, it's a pretty common issue. We've been dating for a couple of years now, and she's ready to move it to the next level. And, well, I'm not sure I'm ready to go to the next level."

"Okay, Thurm, bear with me. I'm pretty new at this relationship stuff. What exactly do you mean by 'the next level?'"

"It's basically black and white. She wants to get engaged, she wants to get married, she wants to settle down and start a family."

"Yikes. I see your dilemma."

"I mean, I like the lady. No—I love the lady. What's not to love? She's gorgeous, she's smart, she's employed, and for some inexplicable reason, she loves me. At least, I thought she did."

I stood up and started pacing. "Then what's the problem? Marry her, start a home, make babies. How old are you? Twenty-six, twenty-seven? Remember, your biological clock is ticking."

"You Bozo. That's a women's phobia." He momentarily smiled. "I just don't know if I'm ready to pick out curtains quite yet."

"Well, you really need to pray through this one. Let's be honest; you're not going to find a whole lot of Alise-quality ladies coming your way at this point, and you're plenty old enough to settle down."

"Fortunately I've got some time to think it through. She's going to be out of town for a couple of weeks on some type of job-training junket. When she gets back, we'll talk it out and see what the future holds."

"Sounds like a good plan. Anything I can do to help?"

Thurm stood up. "Well, since you asked—yes there is. But it has nothing to do with my love life. I'm holding an _all-nighter_ for my middle schoolers on Friday night. I could sure use your help. It'll be here at the church in the Youth Room and also up on the roof recreation area. Your job will be supervision. You won't have to prepare anything. I'm short a couple of chaperones, and I could really use a few more."

"Excuse me, did you say all night?"

Thurm laughed. "Yes, that's right. _All night._ Haven't you ever participated in an all-night youth event?"

"To be honest, I don't believe I've ever stayed up all night. You mean, like no sleep? Who _does_ that?"

Thurm continued to laugh as he sat down behind his desk. "Oh yeah. It sucks for the adults, but the kids just love it. Be here Friday at 10:00 p.m. Dress comfortably and drink lots of fluids."

"Why lots of fluids?"

"Oh, I don't know. I always just throw that one in there for free. Seems like good advice for just about anything . . . except maybe a two-hour staff meeting."

He was still laughing at his own joke as I headed back up the stairs. _Well, at least he's laughing._

_An eventful morning so far._ _Roped into organizing a Single's skit. Roped into chaperoning an all-nighter. What's next? Tom sending me out to the suburbs on a bicycle to distribute religious magazines door to door_? I got chills just thinking about it. Besides, I don't even own a white button-down shirt. _That's it. I'm going to stay right here in The Closet the rest of the day._

"Elmo?" Adrianne crackled over the intercom.

"Yes, Adrianne. What can I do for you this morning?" _Did I just say that_?

"Pastor Tom gave me your hospital visitation slips for today, and he also needs you to cover his as well. The Mayor asked him to participate in the ribbon-cutting ceremony for the new Battered Women's Shelter opening over by the city library. First Church made a sizeable contribution to the project, and we'll be providing volunteer counselors, so the Mayor thought it would be nice for Pastor Tom to be there."

"No problem. Thanks."

"Oh, and Elmo, you might want to get an early start. I've never seen this many slips on a Monday before."

"Thanks for the heads up, Adrianne. I've always liked you, but please excuse me as I have to go now and kill myself."

"Tough morning, huh?" she fired back. "Well, if you decide to go through with it, please let me know 'cause I've gotta give the slips to somebody. Bye."

I guess we can conclude that Adrianne does not have the spiritual gift of sympathy. Or would that be a spiritual fruit?

I flipped open my laptop and launched Outlook Express.

Dear Bonnie,

Hope you're having a good day. No, make that a great day. You deserve a great day just for putting up with me. Allow me to whine for a moment if you will, and please, no sympathy. Just because I'm crying like a little girl, doesn't mean you should treat me like one.

_Well, it's_ Pile It on Elmo Day. _What? You didn't get the memo? Everyone else must have. That communist boss of yours put the strong arm on me this morning to be in charge of the Young Singles skit for Fall Festival Skit Night. He threatened to fire you if I said no. What was I going to do? Actually that's not true. I like Louis, and he didn't use you to leverage his request at all. Anyway, I'm really going to need someone to help me with it—hint, hint?_

Then Thurm shot our Friday date night all to heck. He drafted me to be a chaperone for a youth all-nighter. You'll just have to catch up with me Saturday morning over at St. Michael's. I'll be in the ICU. Just look for the multiple IVs, the oxygen mask, and perhaps an eye patch.

Then Adrianne decided to pick today to break the Guinness World Record for most hospital visitation slips in one day. I'll be finishing those just in time for the Friday all-nighter, again concluding over at the ICU.

This concludes my whine and cheese fest. Hope you enjoyed the rant. Gotta run—I can hear the sick and infirmed calling out my name.

Now where did I put that stethoscope . . .

Love, Nurse Elmo

### The Espresso

Cue the theme song:

Captain's Blog; Starbucks,

_Date: Wednesday, October 27_ th

After successfully navigating through two days of galactic debris spewed from the exhaust ports of the mother ship USS First Church, I'm now patiently waiting at the remote Starbucks Fourth Street station for Archives Officer Lieutenant Fred Snooker to arrive.

I'm such a geek, but hey, somebody's gotta be.

Fred agreed to meet me at Starbucks, but only after I swore to him it was okay for someone over seventy to hang out there. Besides, I'm banking on his senior adult discount so I can upgrade to a Venti.

"Hey, Pastor Snooker, over here."

"Hi Elmo. So this is what the inside of a Starbucks looks like. Cool!" he said, smiling.

"You threw that 'cool' in there for my benefit, didn't you?"

"Caught me."

"Thanks for coming. I hope Starbucks isn't too much of a culture shock. We can meet at Waffle House next time if you like."

"Cool."

"Okay, enough of that!" I refocused him. "Pastor Snooker, I'd like to spend some time going over _The Black Toe Enigma_ stuff, but first I need to ask you a couple of personal questions if that's okay?"

"Elmo, at my stage of life I'm willing to discuss just about anything. The tougher the question, the better. If my blood pressure kicks up a little, that's actually a bonus. Good for the old circulation."

"Okay; as you know Dr. De Villa is my Seminary Internship Advisor. And as you may remember, he asked me a while back to deliver you an envelope."

"Why, yes I do," he said, folding his arms across his chest.

"I've been told by someone I'd rather not name about the _feud_ —for lack of a better word—between you and Dr. De Villa. Do you mind giving me some insight into that situation?"

Pastor Snooker straightened in his chair and put his elbows on the table. "I have no qualms in discussing that, but why the interest?"

"For starters, I have a tremendous amount of respect for you. You've not only become a good friend, but I also depend on you as a ministry mentor. Dr. DV, as we both know, is somewhat of a nut case, but he is my advisor and seems to have taken a genuine interest in me. At first, I dreaded our weekly meetings, but he's grown on me over time. But also, it seems Dr. DV and I spend most of our time nowadays talking about _you_."

"About _me_?" he said taken aback.

"Oh yes. It all started with that envelope I delivered to you. Ever since then, he asks about you every week."

"Really? What type of questions?"

"Caring questions—how's your health, what are your kids doing these days, what ministries are you involved in, etcetera. He seems sincerely interested, as if inquiring about a dear old friend."

Pastor Snooker grinned. "He's probably just plotting my assassination."

I laughed. "No, I think he's had some kind of change of heart, and he's reaching out to you through me."

"Well Elmo, I hope that's true. Our situation hasn't been a feud so much as a vendetta from him against me. I'm sure Thurman told you that I recommended the seminary pass over Augie and hire someone else to be the head of the Theology Department."

"Wait a minute. How did you know it was Thurm who told me?"

"Just a guess, but thanks for confirming it. I guess I'll be slashing _his_ tires tonight."

"What?"

"It's a joke, Elmo. Even us old toots have a remnant of humor left. Anyway, Augie never understood my motivation for doing that, though I tried to explain it to him. So he went on a twenty-year mission to exact his revenge on me. I believe he even thinks he harpooned my chances of becoming the First Church Senior Pastor. But Smitty Fitzsimons had pushed hard for Horace, and that's actually what ended any hope I had for the position."

"Maybe you should slash Smitty's tires instead."

"No, I have no hard feelings toward Smitty, or Augie for that matter. God had me right where He wanted me. I have no regrets whatsoever. As far as reconciling with Augie, I'm very open to that, but he will have to initiate it. After all, he's the one with the grudge. If you feel led to be the peacemaker between us, that's great. Just let me know what I need to do."

_Just the answer I was hoping for_. "Pastor Snooker, with your permission I'd like to follow up on the positive signals Dr. DV has been sending out, and see if he really is interested in burying the hatchet, so to speak."

"You have my permission and my blessings on your efforts. Just keep me informed if you will."

"Will do," I said reaching for my TBT folder.

"Hey, would you like some coffee? My treat," he asked hopping up out of his chair using that standard senior adult maneuver that proclaims: _Hey—I look and feel better than my age!_

"Let me warn you," I cautioned, "the coffee at Starbucks is slightly more expensive than other places."

"No problem, Elmo. I'm loaded these days," he said with a rich man's grin. "They offered to double my salary if I'd take on Bernard Coggins's duties, at least until they find a replacement. What could I say but yes? What can I get you?"

"In that case, and since we'll be discussing the _Black Toe_ lore, I'll have a Caramel Macchiato Venti. That's what Harty Smith drinks."

"Whatever that is, it sounds good. I'll just get two." He shuffled off to place our order.

That gave me a minute to touch base with Bonnie. I called the church office, and Juliann answered. "First Church, the church that cares for you; how I can direct your call?"

I tried to disguise my voice, but I'm no good at it. "My, what a pretty voice you have, missy. This is Mr. B. B. Wolf. Is Little Red Bonnie-hood in?"

"Elmo, you silly. She's at her grandmother's house—duh?" She giggled. "One moment," she added, then sent my call through to Bonnie's office.

"This is Bonnie, how can I help you?"

"Elmo Jenkins, the boy who cares for you; how can I direct your call?"

"Very funny. What's up?" She sounded busy.

"Just confirming our lunch date. Are we still on for noon at Chili's?

"Looking forward to it."

"Good. Unfortunately, it's going to be a working lunch. You've got to help me pull this Singles skit together. Can you bring some of the Whispering Creek drama notebooks with the funny sketches they use in their Sunday morning services? Maybe we can adapt one of those."

"Will do. See you there. Bye"

Pastor Snooker came back with two drinks. "Boy, you weren't just kidding about the pricey coffee. I could get a steak and potato dinner at the Sizzling Sirloin for the cost of these two coffees."

"Yeah, but that's not _cool_." I smirked.

"Touché." He sat back down. "Okay, what have you discovered about _The Black Toe Enigma?_ "

I opened my _Black Toe_ file folder. "To be honest with you, Pastor, I'm befuddled. The deeper I dig into this stuff, the more questions I raise. But I'm not giving up. I talked with a few of the old, old-timers. I blackmailed Harty on the golf course to get some input. I even ran it by Dunston Jones, but basically, I've come up empty. The fact of the matter is, other than this old notebook and your knowledge on the subject, there's not much left to go on. I've put together a timeline based on what Harty told me, the dates in the TBT notebook, and any other info I could come by through old church letters, bulletins, and such."

"Well, that sounds intriguing. Let's see what you have," Pastor Snooker said as he leaned over to look at my notes.

The Black Toe Enigma Timeline

1891 – Wiley Smith becomes Chairman of the Deacons. He remains chairman for fourteen years.

1898 – He gets lost in a blizzard but is saved by another unnamed church member (possibly a deacon)

1921 – Wiley Smith has a debilitating stroke and becomes wheelchair-bound. He develops slurred speech, yet he continues to participate in the Deacon Meetings.

1925 – _The Black Toe_ story begins to circulate within the church.

1928 – The earliest known _Black Toe_ artifact surfaces; a Sunday church bulletin with a handwritten message on the back: "See you at the usual spot. 3:00 p.m.—The Black Toe." It was discovered in Wiley's papers after he died.

1929 – Four artifacts.

1930 – One artifact.

1933 – One artifact.

1936 – Wiley Smith dies. Several _Black Toe_ artifacts found amongst his papers and files.

1937 – One artifact.

1939 – Article in Sunday Times detailing the _Black Toe_ story.

1941 – Two artifacts, including an official church office memo signed TBT.

1944 – Aaron Spencer becomes First Church Associate Pastor

1946 – One artifact.

1947 – Aaron Spencer creates _The Black Toe_ Notebook/Album.

1949 – One artifact.

1950 – An article in the church paper by Aaron Spencer entitled _The Black Toe Enigma._ In the article, he asks anyone with information about the _Black Toe_ story to please come forward. No one does.

1954 – One artifact.

1958 – Fred Snooker becomes the First Church Associate Pastor.

1959 – One artifact.

1964 – Two artifacts.

1975 – One artifact.

* Four artifacts discovered after 1975, but all were dated pre-1975. This includes the gum wrapper I found in my closet office dated 1959.

Pastor Snooker leaned back in his chair sipping his coffee. "Honestly, Elmo, I'm impressed. This had to take some time to compile."

"A little, but it helps me better understand the whole picture. There are some interesting conclusions we can draw just from this timeline. For instance, if this anonymous church member were twenty years old when he got caught in the blizzard with Wiley Smith, and he died in 1975—the last year on the TBT timeline—he would've been ninety-seven years old when he died. When you first told me about _The Black Toe Enigma,_ I assumed it had to involve more than one person, based on the time span. This timeline has proven that assumption wrong.

"I checked the First Church funeral records for 1975. The pastoral staff performed eighty-nine local funerals that year, sixty-seven of them for First Church members. Out of these sixty-seven dead members, thirty-two were men. Of these thirty-two men, six were over the age of ninety-five. Four of the six were life-long First Church members, and three of them had been deacons."

I showed him my notes on the three deacons.

1. Randolph Hitchcock who died at the age of ninety-nine.

2. Snuffy Newton who died at the age of ninety-eight.

3. And William Sinclair Jr. who died at the age of ninety-eight.

"If I were a betting man, which I'm not, I would bet that old black toe belonged to one of these three _fellas_."

Pastor Snooker smiled. "Son, you're in the wrong line of work. You have plumb missed your calling. You should be in forensics. I can see it now: _Elmo Jenkins CSI."_ He started laughing so hard I feared he was going to cough up his pacemaker.

"Pastor Snooker," I said, calmly patting him on the shoulder while nodding assurances to the other startled coffee drinkers. _Yes, we've got it under control._ "It's really not _cool_ to be too rowdy in a Starbucks. It breaks the accepted decorum. Pretend we're in a library."

He wiped his eyes. "Sorry. What exactly do they put in this coffee?"

_Uh oh._ "Did you order any extras?"

"Well, the kid with the nose ring suggested espresso, so I said, 'Give me a double.'"

Now I really _was_ worried about his pacemaker. "I tell you what; why don't you just let me have your Venti cup there, and I'll get you a glass of water. Just sit tight and think about your Happy Place for a few moments. I'll be right back."

"Excuse me," I said to the kid behind the counter with the nose ring. "Could I get a glass of water?"

"No problem."

"By the way, why did you give that old guy over there two hits of espresso?"

"That's easy. He said for five dollars he wanted a bang for his buck."

I grabbed the glass of water. "Thanks, just be ready to call 911 if I give you the signal." I walked the water back over to Pastor Snooker.

"Archives Officer Lieutenant Fred Snooker, can you hear me?"

Pastor Snooker shook his head. "What did you say?" He took a big gulp of water.

"I said, how are you feeling?" I sat back down at the table.

"The water is helping, thank you. Where are—I mean, where were we?"

"We can do this some other time if—"

"No, no," he stopped me. "I'm fine. Sorry for the outburst. Some coffee. I'm just going to stick with the water if that's all right." He paused for a couple of deep breaths. "Okay, let's continue. What other conclusions have you drawn from your research?"

"Well, there's one small problem with my lone shooter theory. I'm no expert, but it appears to me that the handwriting on the various artifacts changed over time. As if they were written by two, maybe three different people. It's really hard to be certain, because many of the older samples have degraded pretty badly. I also factored in the possibility that if it were just one perpetrator, his handwriting could feasibly change as he aged."

"Well, again I'm impressed. You're using a more technical strategy than I did. I spent more time trying to decipher the cryptic messages on the artifacts."

I sat up in my chair. "So you must have assumed that the legend was true, and you were just trying to find out whom the person was?"

"Yes, but more than that, I was trying to figure out the _why_ and the _what_. Why the subterfuge, and what did it all mean? I struck out on both questions, so after a couple of years it became more of a hobby just to see if any more artifacts could be found. Basically, a glorified Easter egg hunt."

"Thank you, sir. That's what I'll do next. I'll list all the artifact messages then cross reference them to check for common words or verses, and see if it leads to anything." I shoved all my notes back into the TBT folder.

Pastor Snooker downed what was left of his water. "Elmo, I think it's great that you've taken an interest in _The Black Toe_ _Enigma_. But don't let it consume you, and don't spend an inordinate amount of time working on it. Remember, the main reason you're here at First Church is to learn about ministry."

We got up and walked toward the exit.

"Oh, I know," I said. "I think I have everything in its proper perspective. I just love solving puzzles. It keeps my mind sharp. Listen, I think you'd better let me drive you back over to the church. I'd hate for you to get a ticket for driving under the influence of strong coffee."

We were both laughing as he held the door open for me. That is until he hurled on my shoes.

Not cool.

My watch read 12:15. _I know I told Bonnie noon at Chili's_.

Certain scenarios in life are full of lousy moments. One of these occurs when you're meeting someone for a meal, but they don't show. It almost always goes down like this. You bust your tail to get there at the agreed-upon time. The restaurant is starting to get crowded, so you make the stupid decision to go ahead and get a table. When the waitress comes by, you explain that you're waiting for someone. You go ahead and order your beverage, but ask to wait on your food order until the slowpoke shows up. It's immediately awkward as you sit there alone nursing a sweet tea, while watching everyone else in the now-full restaurant enjoying a great time with their dinner mates. Then you start to second-guess yourself. _Am I at the right place? Did I get the time wrong? Is this the wrong day?_

The waitress comes by again, and you plead for more time knowing she wants to turn the table. Then you start getting that sick feeling. Did the other person forget? (Always a big self-esteem kick in the head.) You dread calling to remind the person because then _they'll_ get embarrassed, and it all gets even _more_ awkward.

Then you get mad. W _hy don't folks write things down? It's downright inconsiderate!_ Now you're hungry, but eating alone sucks. But you've tied up this poor waitress's table for too long, so you order something to go, double-tipping out of guilt, then eat in your car. The rest of your day is basically screwed on several levels. You still haven't accomplished whatever you were getting together for in the first place. So it'll have to be rescheduled, risking a repeat of the trauma. You now have unresolved bad feelings and trust issues with the other person. They're embarrassed and end up apologizing too much, which makes you feel like a jerk.

You get the idea.

So there I was, sitting on the precipice of the aforementioned scenario. And I was not happy about it. I tried Bonnie's cell phone. No answer. I tried her office. She wasn't there. The people in the restaurant lobby waiting for a table were giving me the evil eye. Fuming, I contemplated leaving. Twenty minutes later, Bonnie finally arrived. Preparing to lower the boom, I took one look as her sweet smile and decided to let it go. _Oh, the_ _restraint of a saint!_ After all, I desperately needed her help on this skit project, and if we were to get into a fight, I would most assuredly end up doing it solo.

"Elmo, I'm so sorry!" She slid into the other side of the booth. "I got ambushed by Erlene Markham in the church parking lot and had trouble extricating myself from her grasp."

I smiled. "Oh, I know that pain."

Bonnie laughed. "She told me this story about these ancient Greek virility statues that had moving—"

"Stop right there!" I put my hand over her mouth. "I've already had to sneak down the street to the confessional booth at the Catholic church to purge myself of the guilt I carried due to one of her stories. One more of her sordid tales and I'll have to start carrying rosary beads."

She carefully removed my hand from her face. "Hope you washed your hands."

"I always wash my hands. By the way, I tried your cell phone two or three times, but got no answer."

"The battery is dead." She hung her head in mock shame. "Sorry again."

"Okay, I'm over it. Let's move on. Did you bring the skit books?"

"I did."

"I'm starving, so let's order then get right to it."

"You go ahead. I just want a Coke."

"What, and skip the world-famous Southwest Egg Rolls?!" I didn't believe her.

"The students from the pastry college brought by samples of their goodies to the church office, and I've been nibbling all morning."

She then proceeded to describe to me in careful detail each of the specialty pastries. Bonnie expresses herself well, but when she talks about food, she takes it to another level. Whereas in normal conversation her hands play a minor role, when she describes different dishes of food, her hands take over—outlining shapes, sizes, and illustrating textures. It's an endearing quirk I've unofficially labeled _Food Hands_. And the best part is she doesn't even realize she's doing it.

BAM! My egg rolls arrived, saving me from any further culinary play-by-play descriptions. While I inhaled my lunch, Bonnie flipped through the Whispering Creek skit books.

"Here's a possibility," she said, placing the open book on the table. "It's about Peter, James and John arguing with each other. They've borrowed Jesus's car but lost his car keys, and they're frantically trying to find them, all the while blaming each other for losing the keys. Looks like a humorous take-off on the New Testament story about the keys to the kingdom. It ends with them finding the keys and the narrator saying 'They all drove off in one accord.' What did you think?"

"I think it sucks on about three different levels, not the least of which it ends with an old and overused preacher's joke. Besides, we need something to involve more singles and both genders. Next."

"Okay, Mr. Spielberg. How's this one about a church camping trip? The title is _It's Not All About Me._ It calls for a cast of twelve, both men and women. The synopsis states: 'Twelve selfish church members start out on a weekend camping trip, each looking out only for themselves. Fighting for the best seats on the bus, hoarding the snacks, using all the hot water, etc. But they're all drawn together by some humorous adversity. By the end of the skit, they've learned to serve each other.'"

"Now that sounds promising. Do you mind if I take a sip of your Coke? My glass has been empty for at least ten minutes. I think our waitress must be off molting somewhere."

Bonnie handed her glass to me and closed the skit book. "Looks as if you'll need two male and two female leads. The others are all extras with just a line or two."

"Perfect," I said before I drained her glass. "Why don't you schedule the Fellowship Hall for us on Sunday afternoon for our first practice—say 4:00? Also put together a flyer to hand out to the Young Singles Department Sunday morning, then we'll get the ball rolling on this thing."

"Anything else, mein Führer?"

"That was harsh."

"No, this is harsh." She reached across the table and snatched my last egg roll. Two quick bites, and it was gone.

"Dang."

### The All-Nighter

Coffee at Starbucks, egg rolls at Chili's, but I had saved the best for last—Wednesday Night Family Suppers at First Church featuring Martha's homemade yeast rolls. The bread of the angels. Martha Ross had been the First Church cook for over fifty years, but she didn't look a day over fifty. Only five feet tall, she ran the church kitchen with an iron fist, yet somehow managed to be very warm and friendly. A true kitchen matriarch, if you will. She was known city-wide for her delectable yeast rolls.

I'd figured out the perfect strategy for Family Night Suppers, arriving about ten minutes before the serving lines closed down. When the kitchen closed, Martha would make the rounds handing out any leftover rolls. Everything she cooked was delicious, but her rolls were simply manna from heaven.

I found Thurm sitting alone finishing his meal. "Hey, Thurm. Got room for one more?"

He scanned the six other empty chairs at his table. "Sure, Elmo. For you, we'll make room."

He looked tired.

Setting my tray on the table, I sat down. "I've been meaning to ask you something for some time now. You're the only Thurman I've ever met. How'd you come by that name? Was it your father's?"

"No, my dad's name was Earl. Everyone called him Big Earl. That is until he died of cancer a few years back. He was a good guy."

"So where did the inspiration for the name Thurman come from?"

"Big Earl was a huge lifelong New York Yankee's fan, and Thurman Munson was one of his favorite players."

"The guy who died in the plane crash?"

Thurm popped one of Martha's rolls into his mouth. "My dad cried like a baby when that happened. Absolutely heartbroken. It was a sad day around the Wilson house."

"Speaking of sadness, you look pretty low." I patted him on the shoulder.

Thurm hung his head. "Things have hit a low point with Alise. In fact, we officially broke up. Indefinitely. Chalk one up for male stupidity."

"What's the deal?"

"There's no deal. It's game over. I'm a free man, even though I don't want to be."

"Give it some time. She'll come back around, you'll see. You're one of a kind." He looked as if he were drowning, so I changed the subject. "What's the agenda for the big middle school all-nighter this Friday?"

"We start at 10:00 p.m. with some games in the Youth Room. Then at midnight, we'll have all the pizza they can eat followed by a two-hour movie. Then it's free time up on the roof recreation area—basketball, skate boards, dodge ball—you know, kid games. Then ice cream and another movie, and it winds down by 7:00 in the morning. It's a very full night, and when it's over you'll be extremely tired."

I started to complain about how this all-nighter messed up my date night with Bonnie, but I bit my tongue in light of his current situation. "I'd like to say I'm looking forward to this gig, but to be honest I'm not."

Thurm didn't hear me. He was too busy trying to get Martha's attention to bring the bread tray our way. Unfortunately, by the time she made it to our table the "manna from heaven" had all been distributed.

"Sorry boys," she grinned, "can I get you a cracker?" She disappeared into the kitchen laughing out loud.

Fridays were usually fairly quiet at First Church. Though theoretically a work day, most of the pastoral staff members never came in on Friday. Giving them the benefit of the doubt, I assumed most were either at home preparing for their weekend ministries, or perhaps had meetings or appointments scheduled off-site. This reality often made my Fridays quite busy, having to cover many of the pastoral bases at the church in their absence. By 5:00 on most Friday afternoons, I was exhausted.

With the all-nighter kicking off at 10:00, I knew I needed a strategy or I'd never make it through the night with my body intact. I decided I'd knock off a little early if possible and try to snag a two or three-hour nap before heading back to the church at 10:00. Sure enough, I stayed swamped all day with several benevolent interviews, two committee meetings, and an emergency run to the hospital to check on Miss Fanny Stutson (one of _The Three Widows_ ) who had fallen and broken her hip. Of course, the other two widows, Emily and Beatrice, were there and beside themselves with anguish. You would've thought all three ladies had broken their hips. And to top it off, Erlene Markham spent the afternoon at the church, so I had to play "duck and run" all afternoon to avoid being drawn into one of her epic conversations.

Limping home about 4:30, I wolfed down a spaghetti and meat balls frozen dinner while watching _Headline News_. My cell phone rang. Bonnie's name flashed on the screen.

"Hey, Bonnie. What's up?"

"You want to grab something to eat?'

"Sorry, I just ingested a frozen dinner, and now I'm heading to bed."

"That's probably not a bad idea. Gonna be a long night for you."

I yawned. "Sure you don't want to join the all-night party?"

"Nope, Peg and I are going to see a chick flick. By the way, I've talked to several people who chaperoned all-nighters before, and they all say the same thing."

"Which is?"

"It's eight long hours of intensely wishing you could go home and go to bed. About fours hours in your legs begin to ache, and then your head starts to hurt, and—"

"Okay, okay, I've got it, thank you very much. No more horror stories."

"Peg's beeping me. Gotta run. I'll call you tomorrow morning."

"Oh no you won't!" I threatened, but she'd already cut me off. If she calls in the morning, I'll have to think up some evil way to get back at her. _I could give Erlene her cell phone number. Oh yeah_. No, that would be cruel and unusual punishment.

I needed to get three or four hours of sleep, but it was only 5:30 in the afternoon. What to do? The situation called for a Baptist cocktail, which every good teetotaler Baptist knows is a shot of Nyquil. Not the recommended dosage up to the designated line on the plastic cup. No, we're talking 'bout filling that sucker right to the top of the rim, then lettin' her burn all the way down.

Night, night.

Sleep time is fast time. I awoke at 9:30 that evening with a profound question at the forefront of my mind. _Where did the idea for all-nighters come from in the first place?_ I envisioned a group of rational adults in some sort of meeting as they planned their youth calendar. Then the resident moron jumps in, "Why don't we have all the kids come down to the church and spend the whole night running around crazy and screaming and destroying the furniture? Yeah! Yeah, that would be fun." And then the idea spreads like the Ebola virus, maiming and killing adult chaperones from one end of the country to the other, eventually finding its way to my doorstep. I would like to meet this moron and lay hands on him. For prayer, of course.

Arriving at the church at 10:00, I was already tired. A throng of middle schoolers had assembled in the Youth Room on the third floor. Estimating about seventy-five kids in all, I counted only six chaperones. It looked to be a long night.

"Hey, Thurm!" I shouted above the racket. "Where do I pick up my body armor?"

"Elmo! You made it! I had my doubts."

"So did I. Where do you want me?"

"Just hang around the back of the room and look forbidding. We'll be playing some group games for a couple of hours, then the pizza arrives at midnight. If you need any help, just ask one of the other chaperones. They've all done this before. And Elmo, thanks for doing this. It means a lot to me that you're here."

_They've all done this before. Great. I'm stuck all night with a bunch of masochists_. Finding a padded chair in the back of the room, I kicked my feet up and tried not to fall asleep. By the time the pizza arrived, fatigue had overwhelmed me, but the kids were just getting cranked up. Two caffeine-enriched Cokes later with a slice of pepperoni pizza, and I was back in top form. But then the movie started. Some Disney drivel with dancing and singing animals sent the sleep fairy my way for an up-close-and-personal-visit.

When the movie ended, Thurm herded all of us up to the rooftop recreation area. There was a full-length basketball court, some ping pong tables, and other assorted game areas. A six-foot retaining wall topped by a three-foot chain-link fence surrounded the entire roof. The chaperones were instructed to make sure the kids didn't do anything stupid. They might as well have asked us to solve world hunger.

"Let them run and play hard," Thurm said. "Just don't let it get out of control."

"Sure, whatever you say," I responded. "By the way, where are the chaperone's tasers stored?"

"Funny," Thurm yelled over his shoulder as he disappeared down the stairwell.

I had a sneaking suspicion he was stealing away for a thirty minute nap somewhere hidden and quiet. I didn't blame him.

One of the other chaperones organized a game of dodge ball and the evening took a sudden turn for the better. I mean, where else can a young adult man throw a rubber ball as hard as he can against the stomach of a bratty thirteen-year-old middle school boy and get _cheered_ for doing it? It was the modern-day version of the Roman Coliseum. Now I knew why these other adults were repeat chaperones. Let the games begin!

Twenty minutes into the game, I was still having fun when I realized that even the chaperones were taking a turn in the middle as the target. Meaning, these little punks were going to get a chance to exact their revenge on _me._ Yikes! When my turn came, I figured that dodging the weak efforts of these prepubescent rug rats would be no problem for an agile, fleet-footed gazelle like me. Who knew these 4'10" crumb-crunchers all had arms like Peyton Manning?

I nimbly dodged their first several throws until a small, quiet boy nicknamed Cujo chose to bypass my stomach, rifling a rocket that reached light speed just as it impacted my face. SLAM! I could hear the sickening sound of rubber slapping flesh. I saw stars . . . and noticed everyone stopping dead in their tracks. The place got quiet, but only for a moment as the ball bounced right back to Cujo. He caught it, bounced it a couple of times, and gleefully taunted, "Who's your daddy now?"

The game resumed as I staggered over to a folding chair and sat down. Since my vision was still a bit blurred and my ears were ringing, I didn't notice who was occupying the seat next to me. Eddie Hughes must have slipped in late during the dodge ball game. After a few moments, he blurted out, "Elmo—man, you took that one right in the chops! Bet that stings."

I recognized his voice immediately. "Eddie, what a surprise. Hey, it's a Friday night. I would've guessed you'd be out on the town with some hot lady." I held an unopened can of Coke from the ice chest against the bridge of my nose. It didn't help.

"Well, I made a few calls, but you know the Shriners are in town this weekend. Everyone was already tied up."

"Really?" _I bet he made a few calls. In fact, I bet he'd been making calls all week long._

Eddie handed me a dish towel wrapped around some ice. "So when nothing panned out, I decided to come over and give Thurm a hand with his all-nighter. It's hard to pass up free pizza."

"You've worked these things before?"

"What can I say? I'm a regular. It's a whole lot better than sitting at home alone, watching _M.A.S.H._ reruns and eating a chicken pot pie."

"Eddie, you're one of a kind."

Adolescent screams cut our conversation short. Glancing up, I saw two middle school boys standing on top of the retaining wall. I couldn't believe it.

"Hey! Get down from there!" I yelled, still aching from my dodge ball smackdown.

I recognized one of the boys as Cujo. "Hurry!" he cried out. "Somebody help! Scotty's falling off the building!"

Both Eddie and I sprung to our feet and raced toward the wall where the boys stood. Halfway across the basketball court, I realized a third boy was up there—hanging from the _outside_ of the chain-link fence topping the wall. Hanging on for dear life.

Cujo was now in full-blown panic. "I told him not to do it! I told him not to do it! He's gonna fall, he's gonna fall! Quick, somebody help! He's gonna fall!"

The other boy up there was bent over the fence holding onto Scotty's shirt with all of his might.

"Eddie, quick—give me a step up!" I shouted. Eddie bent over, interlocking his fingers together and forming a toe hold for me. I stepped into his hands and reached up as Eddie boosted me higher until I was able to get both my hands on the top crossbar of the chain-link fence. Using the momentum of Eddie's lift, I pulled myself up onto the wall and quickly handed Cujo down to the other adults below.

It was a precarious perch as the wall was only four or five inches wide from the base of the fence to the edge. There wasn't much room to stand or maneuver.

Scotty was hanging onto the crossbar with both hands, his feet dangling down the outside wall of the building six floors above the street below.

"Son," I spoke to the boy holding Scotty's shirt. "What's your name?"

"Chris, sir."

"Chris, I'm going to lean over the fence and grab Scotty by his belt, then pull him back over the fence. As soon as I get hold of his belt, I want you to let go of his shirt and turn around and jump back onto the basketball court. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

I spread my feet apart and dug my shoes up under the bottom of the fence.

"Eddie, you and a couple of the other guys grab onto my ankles and don't let go for nothing!"

"Got it, Elmo."

Fortunately, Scotty wasn't a very big kid. As soon as I felt the guys hands grip onto my ankles, I leaned over the fence. The crossbar caught me right at my waist. I grabbed his belt with both hands—my heart pumping full force.

"Okay, Chris, you can let go. Now get outta here!"

He released his grip on Scotty's shirt, wheeled around, and someone helped him down off the wall.

I silently prayed for strength. "Okay, Scotty, we're gonna get you back over the fence, but you've got to trust me and help. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Scotty, on the count of three, I'm gonna pull you up. I'll need you to pull up too, then I'll swing you over the fence and some folks on the other side will be there to catch you. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Here we go!" I yelled to Eddie and the others. "Get ready for him!"

"I'm scared!" Scotty croaked.

"So am I, but we can do this if we work together. One, two, three!" And I pulled him up with every ounce of my strength. Either Scotty was lighter than I'd estimated, or I was super jacked-up on adrenaline, because he came up and over the fence more quickly and easily than I'd expected. I released him in mid-air and the chaperones safely caught him. However, my twisting move threw me off balance, and with my feet pinned down by Eddie, I fell backward toward the basketball court headfirst.

Then everything went black.

The next thing I knew, two EMTs were strapping me to a stretcher. As they secured me, I looked up at the retaining wall and realized I'd just pulled Scotty over the exact spot where that big hole had been patched. _Man that's just too weird._

Then I drifted off into unconsciousness.

In my dream, I had this huge, heavy boulder lying on my head. I couldn't move, and it started to really hurt. So I opened my eyes and found Bonnie staring at me.

"Whoa, what's going on here?" I asked.

She smiled. "What, no eye patch?"

"Huh?"

"Elmo," she said, gently pushing my hair off my forehead. "You're in St. Michael's Hospital. You fell off the retaining wall last night and hit your head on the court. You've been unconscious for the last fifteen hours."

"Man, do I have some headache."

"The doctors say you have a mild concussion. You're lucky. From what I understand, it could've been a lot worse. Eddie Hughes broke your fall and his arm while doing it. He checked out this morning. He'll have to wear a cast for a few months, but he wasn't too upset about it. He mumbled something about 'sympathy dates.' From what I heard, you are _both_ heroes."

Looking around the room, I noticed several bouquets of flowers, some balloons, and even a couple of gifts. "What's with all the flowers and stuff?"

"You've had quite a few visitors. They all got to see you drool in your sleep. I even have video."

"Great," I said under my breath. "What visitors? Like from the funeral home?"

"No, you big lug. Let's see. The big bouquet over there is from Scotty Lichen's mother, the kid you pulled back over the fence. She also brought you some restaurant gift cards, which we can certainly use at a later date. She was very, very grateful for what you did. She's also grounded Scotty—I believe she said for the next decade.

"The balloon bouquet is from church staff. Several of them have come by to check on you—Tom Applebee, Fred Snooker, Juliann, Louis, and of course, Thurm. He left the gift bag."

"What's in it?"

Bonnie picked up the green and blue bag and went through it. "Looks like a bag of assorted _Jelly Bellies_ , a get well card, and a copy of _The_ _Catcher in the Rye."_

"Do you mind reading the card to me? My vision is still a little blurry."

"Sure." She opened the card.

Dear Elmo,

_I'm so sorry about last night and you getting hurt and all. But you're now officially my hero. Your quick action most likely saved Scotty Lichen's life. You are indeed a modern-day Holden Caulfield, so I got you your very own copy of_ The Catcher in the Rye. _You're also a modern-day Daniel, my friend. I've gained a new respect for the prophetic nature of your dreams. As a matter of fact, I recently had a dream about winning the lottery, and I'd like to discuss it with you when you get a minute._

Get well.

— _Thurm_

P.S. Enjoy the jelly beans!

Bonnie closed the card. "What was that all about?"

"Oh, just some Elmo/Thurm esoterica." I did a redirect. "When do I get out of this joint?"

"The doc was just waiting for you to wake up so he could examine you once more. And then, unless you're hemorrhaging from the ears, we should be able to get out of here. He did tell me you should avoid cliff diving, bungee jumping, mud wrestling, and of course, no driving of heavy machinery. At least for the first week or so."

I pretended to be indignant. "Then what am I supposed to do with my time?"

"For starters, sit back and let me feed you your dinner. We'll start with these tasty puréed green beans and corn. Open wide." Bonnie gave me a wicked Nurse Ratchet smile as she jammed the greenish concoction into my mouth.

Yum.

### The Cold Shoulder

It felt good to get back to the safe confines of my apartment. Thanks to several healthy doses of Tylenol 3, I was lights-out for the rest of Saturday and slept in Sunday morning—with Tom Applebee's blessing of course. My goal was to limp into our first skit meeting at 4:00 Sunday afternoon. After all, we only had a week to pull this thing together. And I theorized the Tylenol 3 would make it easier to tolerate some of the goofy singles I knew would show up for the skit practice. And goofy they were.

Eddie showed up cast and all, and of course wanted to be in the skit. What could I say? The guy may have saved me from serious injury or even death. I figured, what the heck, and gave him one of the non-speaking parts.

Since we would only have ten minutes for the skit, we had to edit it down to one scene. The rest of the story would be filled in with narration which I would do. In addition to the narration, we had four main speaking parts; two guys and two girls. The other eight players only had a few lines, if any. They would be basically be just moving props.

The afternoon's tasks included assigning the different parts, handing out scripts, discussing set props, and setting a rehearsal schedule.

To pick the players, I assessed those in attendance and chose Debbie Jesper (the state Scrabble champion) and Charlise Maldune (an English teacher) for the female leads. For the guys, I selected Bob Druthers and Bob Rickets. In hindsight this was a stupid mistake on my part. Later, during rehearsals I would call for "Bob," and both guys would answer at the same time, causing endless confusion and time loss. I selected the other eight players, including a part for Bonnie, then handed out scripts. We decided to practice both Friday and Saturday evenings back here at the church. Eddie would head up a team to find campground props for our skit, and we all agreed on the type of clothes to wear.

After practice, Bonnie and I headed toward the parking lot. All in all, the meeting had gone pretty well. At least, I thought so. We had a good script, and we were on track to put on a good performance. But when we got into my car to go get a bite to eat, I realized there was a problem. Bonnie didn't say a word. This usually meant she was upset about something.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"I know better, now come on. Out with it," I said impatiently.

"You know, Elmo, you can be a real jerk at times."

"Excuse me? What are you talking about?" I was hungry, my head still hurt, and I honestly had no idea what her problem was. But I could tell she was really angry.

"You just blew me off with the skit assignments. I helped you pick out the skit and rewrite it, I volunteered to help you pull this thing off in one week, and I get assigned a part with one line, which states—and I quote—"the toilet paper is too rough."

My defenses went up. "Hey, I was just trying to give everyone who came a chance to participate. If you wanted one of the main roles, you should have said something about it before the meeting. It's not fair to bust my chops over it now."

Then I got _The Bonnie Look—_ or stare or whatever it was—with the always accompanying sarcasm. "Okay, Mr. Coppola, you're on your own with this one." She got out of my car, slammed the door, and stormed off.

"Whoa . . ." I said, channeling Keanu Reeves.

It was all I could think of to say.

Bonnie wouldn't answer her phone, so on Monday morning I dropped by the Singles office to see her. What did I get for my extra effort? An ice-cold shoulder. Figuring life was just too short for this kind of crap, I decided to let her stew on it for a while. I had bigger fish to fry. Still, it bugged me.

After lunch, I dutifully stopped by St. Michael's Hospital for a follow-up examination, where I learned that my brain was still intact. The doctor quipped that my hat size might be one or two sizes larger from the swelling. I promised to postpone any fitted hat purchases indefinitely. Noticing that the good doctor sported an Echelon Country Club wristband, I figured he had a collection of fitted hats.

After parking my car in the church staff lot, I noticed a man digging around in the dumpster behind the Education Building. As I approached him, I called out, "Excuse me, sir, are you looking for anything in particular?"

He stopped foraging for a moment and flashed a grimy smile. "One man's trash is another man's treasure." He resumed rummaging around. His right arm boasted a large "Sid" tattoo in murky blue-green Old English letters. He clutched several half-empty bags of chips in his dirty hands.

"My name is Elmo, and I work here at the church. How about you hop out of there and I'll take you inside and get you a plate of food. They serve lunch every day for our volunteers. We can even set you up with a fresh set of clothes if you like.

"No, son, you just go on 'bout your business. I'm not interested in goin' into your church, and I'm not interested in hearin' 'bout your religion."

"But—"

"I said not interested," he snapped, cutting me off. "Comprendo?"

As I climbed the stairs up to my office, I couldn't shake the image of Sid clinging to his scraps of garbage, turning down the invitation to a plate of real food. It painted such a vivid picture of the church in today's world—holding out the Bread of Life and being dismissed by people violently clutching their "trash" while rejecting God's love.

It reminded me of a conversation I had with a good guy named Billy back at my home church. Billy asked me out to lunch one day to talk about spiritual matters. He'd been dating one of the single ladies in our church, and seriously thinking about giving his life to God. But he was reticent. In his skewed view of Christianity, it meant losing personal freedoms, and he had several "habits" he didn't want to give up. I explained how faith in Christ was all about freedom, and that if he truly committed his life to Christ, he would have total freedom, even in those areas he'd mentioned. But I also made sure he understood that once a person makes the commitment, God has a unique way of reordering their priorities. Often, those old habits don't seem as important anymore.

When I got back to _The Closet,_ Bonnie was sitting in my chair. No homemade chocolate chip cookies graced my desk.

"Hey," I said, plopping down in one of my other chairs. "What's up?"

After a brief dramatic pause, she responded. "It really hurt my feelings when you skipped over me in the skit assignments yesterday. But I thought about it, and in all fairness, I should have said something ahead of time."

She's apologizing. I can't believe it.

I could've let her hang out to dry for a few minutes, but I was weary of the whole thing. "Listen, I'm sorry for being such an insensitive dolt about it. I have a latent genetic defect in my discernment skills, but there is good news. Charlise called me this morning and begged off her part. She said she'd rather have one of the smaller roles. So I just figured I would switch you two. I would've told you earlier today, but alas—well, that's another story . . ."

She smiled. "Now I feel like a jerk."

"Good. This means you'll be able to empathize with me since I regularly play that role with gusto."

Her smile and her sarcasm returned. "And you play it oh so well."

Monday afternoon rolled around which meant a ten-minute drive over to the seminary for my mandatory weekly meeting with the Dr. DV.

Now that Pastor Fred had kicked open the door of reconciliation, I began searching for a cogent strategy to convince Augie to participate in a face-to-face meeting with his long-time adversary. This wasn't going to be easy. Or so I thought.

The seminary campus teemed with activity as the fall semester wound down. The ancient oak trees adorning the main drive exploded with brilliant orange, red, and yellow leaves. I loved this beautiful old campus, and I felt a tinge of sadness knowing my days here at Harvest Morgan were all but over.

When I entered the outer office, Bess was nowhere to be found. _Probably out gathering gossip on some poor unsuspecting ministerial student_. Dr. DV's door was closed, so I knocked on the door, three quick blows in a staccato rhythm.

"Who is it?" he grunted.

"Elmo Jenkins," I answered firmly through the solid wooden door.

"Come in, Mr. Jenkins," he said without hesitation.

When I opened his office door, I found him sitting with his back to me rifling through papers on his credenza. As I stepped into his office, I was immediately assaulted by a virulent, pungent aroma that could be only one thing: flatulence. But on this occasion, a flatulence that most assuredly emanated from the very bowels of hell. My eyes burning, I suffered immensely as I wobbled toward his desk, careful to breathe only through my mouth. This was no ordinary odor. No, this propane had obviously percolated in the old man's colon for quite some time before gaining purchase and exploding into his small office instantly vaporizing all flora and fauna as it rushed to permeate the confined space.

He turned slowly as a huge grin stretched across his face.

He knew I knew.

I knew _he_ knew I knew.

Neither of us spoke. He paused for an extra-long moment, clearly enjoying my torment.

"Jenkins, let's go for a walk," he said. "I need some fresh air."

"Me too," I gasped, thanking God under my breath.

Exiting the main doors we strode slowly along the cobblestone pathway fronting the Theology Building. To our right in my line of site just over Dr. DV's shoulder was the historic and esteemed Campus Rotunda Building fashioned after the Jefferson Monument. I did a double-take. The resemblance astonished me—the domed roof identical to the curvature of Dr. DV's bald head. As if he'd surely posed as a model for the building's designer. I kept this observation to myself.

Stirred from my musing by Dr. DV's familiar phlegm gurgle and spit, I broke the silence. "Dr. De Villa, according to my internship calendar, this is our last meeting. I want you to know how much I've benefited from your guidance. I've gained a tremendous amount of respect for you along the way, and I want to thank you for everything you've done for me."

The old man cleared his throat again. "Jenkins, we both know that's a bunch of flowery nonsense. I'm one miserable internship advisor. I know it, and you know it. I do it because it's part of my job description—period. That said, I've grown to like you. I believe you have a bright future in whatever you pursue, and I'm not just blowing pig manure when I say that."

He had an interesting way of delivering a compliment.

I slowed my pace. "I do have one last favor to ask. This may be way out of line but here goes. I've asked Pastor Snooker if he'd be open to a sit-down meeting with you to talk over old grievances and clear the air. He said yes, and he said it without hesitation. Would you also consent to such a meeting?"

Dr. DV sighed. "You know, young man, in past years such meddling would have been a poor career decision on your part. But I'm in a bit of transition as of late. Some would call it a softening of long-held convictions about certain issues. A bit of a renaissance I think. Fred has been on my mind a lot lately. Maybe it has to do with the growing need to tie up loose ends as I enter the _swan song_ phase of my life. It's not widely known yet, but this is going to be my last year at the seminary. I don't see it as retirement; no it's more of a _fading off into the horizon_."

He stopped walking and turned toward me. "Sorry for the rambling. I've been experiencing a touch of melancholy these last few months, and that's a new experience for me. Expressing myself along these lines has always been difficult. To address your question—yes. Tell Fred I would indeed like to meet with him. Perhaps we can get together after the graduation ceremony. I'm assuming he'll attend your commencement?"

"I believe he is planning to be there, but I'll confirm that, then let Bess know. Finally, before I go, I have one last question. I have to know about your bowling trophies. How did you ever get into bowling?"

A delighted smile broadened his face. "Well, Mr. Jenkins, that's quite a long story. But if you don't have to rush off just yet, I'd be more than happy to tell you all about it . . ."

### The Bowling Ball

My First Church internship would be over in just a few weeks. I'd fulfilled most all of the assigned requirements necessary to get full credit, so my last couple of weeks at the church looked to be pretty light work-wise. I could relax some and enjoy the ride, which was nice. Popping into Bonnie's office Tuesday morning, I surprised her with a bouquet of flowers. The look on her face let me know it was worth every penny I'd spent on them.

"Elmo, you are indeed developing into a romantic." She beamed.

"With God, all things are possible," I quipped, thrilled with her response. "Listen, I have an idea for tonight if you're open to it—a fun way to kill several birds with one stone, or ball in this case. Dr. DV gave me his beloved bowling ball yesterday! He can't bowl any more due to a bad back, and he wanted me to have it. I thought it would be fun to go bowling tonight and try it out. I've also been looking for an opportunity to get Thurm out of his apartment. He's been in the major dumps since he and Alise broke up."

"Sounds like fun, though I'll have to cancel my Amway meeting."

"Your what?!" I gasped.

"Easy boy, just kidding; I'm not a multi-level type of girl. How 'bout I see if Juliann would like to join us? Do you think Thurm would mind?"

"Why would he? As long as we don't slip up and call it a double date. Let's shoot for 7:00 at the Happy Lanes and Grill. It's automated so you don't have to keep your own score."

"My kind of place. I'll pick up Juliann, and you bring Thurm. That way it'll be casual and relaxed for everyone. By the way, Elmo, can you bowl?"

"About like I play tennis and fish, but don't worry. I'll try not to injure anyone."

I'd made an appointment to see Tom Applebee in his office at 10:00, so I took the executive elevator up to the fifth floor. When I walked into Tom's outer office area, Adrianne called me over to her desk.

"Elmo, you've gotta hear this," she said, barely suppressing a laugh. "I just pushed the ON button on the intercom to call you and remind you about your appointment with Tom. You must have left your CALL button on. Take a listen."

Dunston Jones was singing _Sitting on the Dock of the Bay_ with all his gusto. He must have been sweeping up my office. He sounded rather good, singing in a mellow baritone voice.

"Well, who knew old Dunston could sing like that?" I said.

But what I was really thinking? _How many times have I inadvertently left that CALL button down, letting Miss Figghie eavesdrop on me? Dang_. _Payback for all those times I'd listened in on the nursery ladies._

"Elmo," Tom stood in the doorway to his office. "Come on in."

I winked at Adrianne. "Now don't you tell Dunston you heard him crooning, and I won't tell Pastor Tom what I've heard when you've left _your_ CALL button down." Her jaw dropped, and her face turned pale. Now I was the one suppressing a laugh. As I closed Tom's door, I winked at her one more time.

"Elmo, have a seat. What's on your mind?" he said, smiling.

I eased into one of his leather chairs. _Man, what a nice piece of furniture_.

"Pastor Tom, I know I have a scheduled Exit Interview in a few weeks to wrap up my internship here at First Church. But today, I'm here to ask your opinion and advice on the full-time position the Personnel Committee has offered me starting the first of the year."

Tom swiveled sideways, leaning his chair back and putting his hands behind his head. "To be honest, Elmo, the idea for the new position actually started with Horace and Smitty. They didn't wrap me in until the third conversation or so. There's been concern for some time now that First Church was aging, and in danger of going the way of so many other great churches that just dry up through attrition. We really had no strategy or plan to correct this problem until you came along. Horace feels—and I concur—that you are a 'prototype,' for lack of a better word, for the kind of young, energetic, outside-the-box, yet grounded individual that we need to help First Church succeed where other long-standing churches have failed.

"It's a huge win-win opportunity for you. You'll get to innovate and take risks, and at the same time have the full support of the leadership of the church. A lot of the sharp young guys coming out of the seminaries are trying to recalibrate their churches for the future with no mandate from their church leaders or membership. More often than not, they get eaten alive, disillusioned in the process, and in many cases kicked out on their heads.

"Here, we have a unique situation. An old, established, historic church that really wants to turn the corner."

I leaned forward and put my elbows on Tom's desk. "I know it's an incredible opportunity, but I'm just prayerfully wondering if I'm the right man for the job. Or if I'm even up to it. Wouldn't it make more sense to find someone who has more seasoning, more actual church staff experience?"

Tom wheeled his chair around to face me directly. "Elmo, you proved your capability to us all these last six months. I wish some of our other guys had your enthusiasm and work ethic. Personally, I think you would be a tremendous success in this new role, but ultimately, the decision has to be yours. Only you know what's best for you and your future. It's a big job, and I hope you say yes, but I will support your decision either way."

My afternoon schedule was open so I swung by _The Closet_ and picked up a few things, including _The Black Toe Enigma_ album and my folder of TBT research. I figured I would head back to my apartment and spend some time analyzing the different TBT artifacts to see if there were any clues in them.

I dropped in on Thurm on my way out. "Hey, buddy."

He was working on some lame-looking poster for one of his upcoming youth events. "Hey, Elmo. What's up?"

"You know, you should take some of your staff 'continued training' allowance and take a few classes in graphic arts or something. You design some dog ugly posters."

"If you accept that uppity-up staff position you've been offered, perhaps you can convince Smitty and friends to finally okay a secretary for me and Johnny. You know youth ministers get no respect—"

"Uh oh, here comes the whining again—not! Subject change. We're going bowling tonight."

"What? No, Elmo, I can't—"

"Yes you can, and you will," I said firmly. "I know you don't have any plans, and you can just TiVo _American Idol_ and watch it later."

"How'd you know I watch _American Idol_?"

"I learned all kinds of weird stuff about you from the kids at the All-Nighter."

"No."

"Oh yeah," I said with a big grin. "Anyway, the real draw is that I'll be bowling with Dr. DV's championship bowling ball which he gave me as a graduation present yesterday. He told me he had won over one hundred trophies with that ball."

"Elmo, I've seen you play competitive sports. Does the bowling alley have good insurance?"

"Now there's the Thurm I love. Yes, I have limited bowling skills, but it should be fun watching me flounder. And by the way, Bonnie and maybe Juliann will be there also."

"Why Juliann?"

"Bonnie wanted to invite a friend along. And hey, you and Juliann are just friends. Remember, no agenda, no regret. I'll pick you up at 6:30 sharp."

When I got home I threw my stuff on the coffee table in the living room and headed to the fridge for a—you guessed it—can of Coke. The only other items in my refrigerator were a jar of grape jelly (not jam) and a bag of mozzarella cheese sticks. I grabbed one of those as well. Ah, the unencumbered life of a young single man.

Back on my couch, I took a bite of cheese and a swig of Coke then grabbed the TBT album. I took out the stack of artifacts with the intent of writing down each message and doing an analysis of them as a group. From the pile, something caught my eye. It was rounded with a scalloped edge. I didn't remember seeing it before. Pulling it from the pile, it appeared to be a cardboard coaster or something similar. A message written on it said: _Just let it go. TBT_

There was no date. _How could I have missed this one? Oh well._ But then I flipped it over and about fell off the couch. It was a coaster all right—a coaster from the Echelon Country Club. My mind started spinning. Where did this come from? How did it get here? This must be some type of practical joke, but whom from? _Who would have access to this type of coaster_? I jotted down the possible perpetrators.

The list was short:

Smitty

Dr. Jorgenson

Harty Smith

Tom Applebee (maybe?)

Thurm (possible, but why?)

I quickly eliminated Harty as a suspect. He wouldn't have had access to the TBT album. And why would he play a joke on me? He didn't even really know me.

No way Dr. Jorgensen would have done this. We'd never discussed it, and he was no practical joker. Smitty, ditto.

That left Tom Applebee and Thurm. It had to be Thurm. Tom was a fun-loving guy, but he had much bigger concerns to deal with. I couldn't imagine him taking the time for this type of prank.

As I pondered this new turn of events, I stared at the pile of artifacts. I pulled out the one dated 5-5-1975. The message was written on an interoffice memo slip of paper which was originally probably white, but now a faded, tannish yellow color.

The cryptic handwritten message simply stated: _That's not a good move._

I had no clue what that meant or what it referred to. What caught my eye was the 'g' in the word _good_. The shape was unusual, almost like a curved, elongated figure eight. I reached for the Echelon coaster and flipped it over. Sure enough, the 'g' in the word _go_ was identical. I'm no handwriting expert, but it sure looked as if these messages were written by the same person. And since the Echelon Country Club was only a few years old, it meant these two messages were written decades apart. That eliminated Thurm and Tom.

What the heck was going on here? Why write a message on an Echelon coaster? I was more confused than ever.

I picked Thurm up at 6:30 sharp. He wore a bowling shirt. _No way_.

"Who owns a _bowling_ shirt?" I said, embarrassed for him.

"I used to be in a church bowling league. It's an expensive shirt, and I never get to wear it, so I thought why not? Besides, it matches my bowling ball bag and shoes."

I laughed out loud. "So you have an entire matching bowling _ensemble_."

"So what?"

"I bet you also have one of those Spandex bicycling outfits with matching helmet and gloves."

"Sure do."

My mocking tone flew right over Thurm's head. Maybe the joke was actually on me in my cargo pants and sweatshirt.

"Thurm, I have to ask you something straight out, and I need you to be totally honest with me. Did you plant a new clue in the TBT album?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about. I've only seen that stupid book the one time—at the Staff Retreat. What's going on?"

"Well, as you may remember there were a lot of clues, or 'artifacts' as Pastor Snooker called them, in _The Black Toe Enigma_ album. Since then, I've been spending a lot of time doing a kind of forensic study of all the material in the album."

"Why?" He seemed incredulous.

"Because I want—no, I _need_ to get to the bottom of this hundred-year-old mystery. It's just the way I'm wired. I like working and finding solutions to challenging problems or puzzles." I felt a bit frustrated by his ambivalence.

"Okay, okay. Don't get all huffy on me," he said, straightening up in the passenger seat of my car. "What's this about a new clue?"

"Up until today, the most recent artifact had come from 1975. Then out of nowhere this afternoon, I found a new artifact written on the back of an Echelon Country Club coaster. Which means it can only be a few years old."

"Hey Elmo, did I ever tell you I saw Jack Nicklaus play an exhibition match at the Echelon Country Club?"

"You know what, Thurm? Just forget I even brought it up. Look—we're here, and there are the girls waiting for us. Is Juliann wearing a poodle skirt?"

Thurm checked his hair in the mirror. "What's a poodle skirt?"

"Maybe you two _do_ belong together . . ." I mumbled, shutting the car door behind me.

I bumped into Louis Estrada in the break room Wednesday morning.

"Hey Elmo, how's the Young Singles skit coming along?"

"I think we're in good shape. The skit is written, and we've already had one meeting to assign all the parts and prop-making responsibilities. We have two rehearsals planned this weekend to finalize everything."

"Sounds great. Bonnie tells me you had a rough time at the bowling alley last night."

"Yeah, well, the bowling ball was a gift from Dr. DV, and it was _extremely_ heavy. I had trouble keeping my fingers in the holes custom-cut for his big hand."

Louis chuckled. "Did you really knock over one of the planters?"

"Unfortunately yes, and I'm afraid it went downhill from there."

He continued to chuckle as he walked out of the room. "See you at staff meeting."

Making my way up the back stairs, I headed for Pastor Snooker's office. As I rounded the corner, I could see _The Three Widows_ —actually only two of _The Three Widows_ (Miss Fanny was still home recovering)—had just left Fred's office and were headed back to the volunteer room. I cracked the door to the men's room and whispered "All clear!" And just like always, Pastor Snooker emerged with his Daytimer, and we walked back to his office.

"Pastor Snooker, I had my last meeting with Dr. DV this week, and he agreed quite amicably, to meet with you for the purpose of making amends."

"Splendid, Elmo! You are a true peacemaker!" he said, all smiles.

"Dr. DV suggested sitting down right after the conclusion of the commencement service over at the seminary."

"You let him know that would be just fine. I'll look forward to it."

"On another topic" I segued, "there has been a new development with _The Black Toe Enigma_."

"Oh, really?" Fred replied as he sat down behind his desk.

"This showed up in the TBT album this week." I handed him the Echelon coaster.

"Well, isn't that interesting. Any idea who did it?" he asked.

"I thought it might be Thurm pulling a practical joke. But I asked him about it, and I'm convinced he had nothing to do with it. And here's where it gets really weird." I handed him the 1975 artifact. "Notice the similarity of the handwriting between the two, look at the 'g' in both messages."

His eyes widened. "You're absolutely right. This could be the same person. Or, perhaps the new one was forged?"

"I suppose." I laid the TBT album on his desk. "Pastor, I've decided to give up the chase. I've had fun working on it, and it helped me learn about First Church's history, but I'm facing some very important decisions right now, so I need to turn _The Black Toe Enigma_ back over to your faithful hands."

"I'm not at all surprised, Elmo," he said pausing for a reflective moment. "But kudos to you for resurrecting the search, even if only for a while. I too have invested a lot of time over the years in the ol' TBT. Maybe next year's intern can build on your work and bring the journey to its conclusion. I, for one, would still like to know what really happened," he said with a touch of remorse.

"Me too. Let me know if there are any new developments, okay?"

"I will," he said with a smile. "Let me walk with you to staff meeting."

Thurm was back in true form. As I walked into the first floor Boardroom, I noticed an announcement filling the whiteboard on the far wall:

_Elmo Jenkins sets Modern Day Record for most gutter balls in one game of bowling. Team_ _Guinness_ _en route to validate._

It would be yet another long day . . .

### The Skit

I'd like to say the skit rehearsals had gone well, but that wasn't the case. I'd begun to realize that most young singles are just too carefree. It's not that they're irresponsible—okay, maybe _some_ are—but they don't seem to value attention to detail and schedule that you find among older and/or married people. Meaning, both nights we got started late, each night some key player was missing, and few of them had prepared ahead of time. You get the picture. We weren't ready, but the show must go on.

The Sunday evening service at First Church was called _The Family Hour_. No children's or youth programs were scheduled during this service in order for families to sit together in church at least once a week. Wisely, "the powers that be" agreed to leave the nursery open.

On Sunday evenings, staff members were still required to wear a coat and tie, but members were encouraged to dress more casually. Even so, some of the old-timers still wore their Sunday best. If I agreed to accept the position as Assistant to the Pastor, one of the first issues I would address would be the dress code. To the eyes of my generation, the only people who still wore suits on the weekend were ministers and undertakers. And let's face it—when people equate going to church with going to a funeral, there's a problem. Definitely _not_ a good way to reach the young. But that's a battle for another day.

Six skits would be performed with the young singles in the last slot (their choice). We grouped up in the Green Room and awaited our turn.

Eddie Hughes raised his hand and quieted the room, then looked at me. "Okay, Captain Pep Talk, give us our marching orders."

I stood up. "All right, gang. In light of our less-than-sterling rehearsals, we've decided to go the improv route. Though Eddie and Jesse made some rather . . . _interesting_ props, we've chosen to go with a bare stage. Each of you will have a flashlight."

Eddie walked around the room distributing flashlights.

I continued. "We'll stay with the basic structure of the original skit—a church group on a campout that learns how to put others first. I'll start with the narration, and when I'm done, you all walk up on stage and start interacting. It's okay if you use some of your original lines, but be sure to speak naturally and not stilted in your delivery. Also, remember this is a _church_ service. Don't let your ad-libbing embarrass us all. Especially you, Eddie."

"Got it," Eddie whispered from the corner of the room, pretending to zip his mouth. I knew it wouldn't stay zipped for long.

The Super Seniors had just finished some dreadful version of _The Love Boat,_ and they were being wheeled off the stage (literally) with several oxygen tanks in tow.

And then it was our turn.

Tom Applebee, the emcee for the evening, stepped up to the mic. "And now, last but not least, our Young Singles group. The title of their skit is: _Kumbaya and Other Camping Horror Stories_. A nice courtesy laugh floated across the audience as he handed me the mic.

"Oh the joys of camping," I began. "The bugs, the heat, the dirt, those wonderful porta-potties, the rain, the snakes, the bears—I could go on, but you get the idea. Into this environment of warmth and love, what do we as churches do? We send unsuspecting people. Busloads of people who hardly know each other. We send them waaaay out into the woods away from every known convenience so they can 'share' with each other, build camaraderie, and have fellowship." I turned to stage right. "Here come some happy campers now."

Bonnie, Debbie, Bob and Bob, Eddie, and the rest of the cast filed in.

"Why did the Singles Director drop us off out here in the middle of nowhere and then leave with the bus?" Bonnie asked with appropriate distress.

One of the Bobs answered, "Oh, Louis always spends the night at the Hampton down the road on these trips. He says he needs a good night's rest before driving the bus back home tomorrow."

I snickered. _Louis will never believe that was ad-libbed._

"I'm thirsty!"

"I'm hungry!"

"I'm scared"

"Who's in charge?"

"Well, that would be me." Eddie stepped forward.

_Uh oh._ I clenched my teeth.

"Why are _you_ the leader?" Debbie asked.

"Because I have the bag of food."

"You've got my vote."

"I'm thirsty!"

"I'm hungry!"

"I'm scared!"

"Would you all pipe down?" Eddie shouted with authority. "You're all whining like a bunch of girls!"

"We _are_ a bunch of girls," the whiners said in unison.

"Oh, yeah. I see that," Eddie responded, a bit befuddled. "Okay, let's get organized. Bob and Bob, you guys pitch the tents over there, and you whining girls set up the food table over there. I'll build a campfire right here in the middle with my one good arm."

"Why do the guys always have to do the grunt work?" the Bobs said together.

"Why do the girls always have to prepare the food? Huh?" one of the girls retorted.

"I'm thirsty."

"I'm hungry."

"I'm scared."

Eddie, now totally immersed in character, threw his head back and screamed, "Quit your complaining!"

At that split second, a bolt of lightning crashed outside the church, so close I wondered if it might have hit the steeple. Thunder boomed through the auditorium, shaking the stained glass windows, and simultaneously knocking the power out on the entire church facility. Everything went pitch black. Gasps and screams filled the auditorium, then suddenly the room went completely silent.

_Now what!?_ I thought. The emergency exit lights at the back of the auditorium flickered on but remained dim.

Bonnie had the presence of mind to click on her flashlight and point the beam up toward her face. She took one step toward the audience, who were now sitting in the dark. "I'm sorry for whining, Eddie. Here, let me help with the food."

And then another flashlight clicked on. "Here, let me help you."

And another. "I'll get the tents all set up."

One by one the flashlights came on until everyone was working together to set up the camp. So cool. Very spontaneous.

How are we going to end this thing?

Then BAM! Louis Estrada burst into the front of the auditorium with a bright Coleman lantern, "Is everyone all right?" he shouted. Louis had been counseling someone in another part of the building when the lights went out, unaware of what was happening on stage.

"Louis, did you remember to bring back the bus?" Eddie yelled back, still in character.

The audience roared at poor Louis's expense as the young singles filed off the stage, and the emergency halogen lights finally brightened to full power. Many of the members in the audience thought the whole thing had been staged.

But the young singles knew better. They took off to Applebee's to celebrate with some _real_ food and fellowship.

Man, was I glad that was over! Forget Applebee's. I took off to celebrate with some real up-close-and-personal Bonnie time.

### The Wrap-Up

I believe it was Yogi Berra who once said, "It ain't over 'til it's over."

Well, it was almost over. How'd I know? They had scheduled the fat lady, Geraldine Fitzsimons O'Leary, to sing for my last Sunday morning under _The Big Top._ Probably just a coincidence, but for me, it put the final fork in the pie for my internship at First Church.

With Friday came a long list of tasks to accomplish, including cleaning out _The Closet_ , signing a few papers for Big Bird, meeting with Tom for my Exit Interview, and several other miscellaneous items. I'd asked Dunston to come down and help me get all the furniture and other office accessories put back where he'd found them.

On Wednesday, the staff had given me a nice party during staff meeting, and presented me with one of those giant going-away chocolate chip cookies. And who knew it was possible, but not a single Sesame Street joke. Either I'd gained their respect, or else they'd just grown tired of embarrassing me. Who knows. But they all chipped in and gave me a new leather briefcase—even though I'd told them I only wear boxers. Go figure.

My graduation commencement exercises would take place at Harvest Morgan Seminary on Monday morning at 10:00. For reasons not fully understood, I had been chosen to represent the graduating class and give the final remarks at the close of the ceremony. They probably couldn't find anyone else willing to do it.

Most of the church staff had promised to come to my graduation. I felt as though these folks had become my new family, and many of them would probably be lifelong friends. Only a few people at the church knew I'd been offered a permanent position on the staff, but word was starting to get around. No surprise there. Churches are notoriously bad when it comes to gossip. Ironic, isn't it?

I still wasn't sure what to do about the job offer. The seminary placement office had been sending out my resume, and I'd been contacted by four other churches to interview for a variety of positions. A church in Birmingham needed a Singles minister, and one in Orlando had an opening for a Youth minister.

I'd even had a call from a Chairman of Deacons named Slim from a small town in Texas looking for a pastor. "Son, what would it take to get a city boy like you to come to West Texas?"

"How about the oil and minerals rights under the church property?" I quipped. He thought I was serious. Probably not a good match.

Someone knocked on my door. "Come in," I called. The door opened, and my favorite janitor walked in. "Hey Dunston, how're you doing this morning?"

"Fine-'n-you?"

"I'm great, and I sure appreciate you coming down here to help me close up shop. By the way, when is _your_ last day at First Church?"

He smiled real big. "Two weeks from today."

"When did you start working here?"

"Why, I believe it was the first week of 1969. Yessir, yes that is correct."

"Wow—you've worked here a _long_ time! What happens now for ol' Dunston, and how will the church ever function without you here?"

He looked at the floor. "Oh, I don' know. They'll make do just fine. You know, 'specially with that fancy new cleanin' service that's takin' over. And me, you'll find me down at the lake fishin' most ever' day, I s'pect. You should come out there some time and learn a few things."

"I just might do it," I said, laughing. "Will I have to get down low behind the bank like this?" I slid down behind my table just peeking over the edge.

Dunston stiffened his back. "Laugh all you want, just 'member I'm the one eatin' fresh fish sam-a-gis' ever' day!" he said proudly.

"Hey, I'm just kidding. In my eyes, Dunston, you may just be the best fisherman in the world."

His smile returned. "Could be true, I s'pose."

"Dunston, this is my last day in my off—uh, this _closet,_ so we'll need to return all this stuff back to its rightful place."

"No problem. I know right where everythin' belongs. I'll take care of it. I would like to keep that nameplate that fell off yo' door. I have me a collection of doorplates from most the folks I've worked for here over the years, and I'd like to add yours to the collection."

"Well, I'd be honored for you to have it! It's right over there on that metal shelf against the back wall." His request humbled me.

"I'm mighty thankful, Elmo. Now, I've got somethin' for you. I know you're graduatin' Monday, so's I wanted to give you a little somethin'." He pointed a weathered finger at me, his expression serious. "Don't you ever forget that a good education is a _privilege_ and comes with a responsibility to _pass on_ what you learned." He pulled a sealed envelope from his back pocket with "Elmo" written on the front. "Now, don't be gettin' too excited. It ain't money, but you'll be mighty happy when you see what's inside. But you got to promise me you won't open this envelope 'til after you graduate. You hear what I'm sayin'?"

"Yessir, I promise." I took the envelope from his hand. "Dunston, I don't know what to say. Thank you. Getting to know you has been one of the highlights of my time here. And I really do want to go fishing sometime. No, scratch that. I want to go 'catching' with you sometime."

He smiled his biggest smile yet. "Well, I'm yo' man for that!" We both had a good laugh, and I gave him a big ol' hug.

My exit interview went well. Tom gave me mostly high marks, and lots of good suggestions for the areas he thought I could improve in. He reviewed the job offer from the Personnel Committee with me, this time including the salary and benefit numbers. If I took the job, I wasn't going to get rich, but it would still be a great starting point for someone like me, coming right out of school. I told him I would have a decision for him on Monday. He promised this time I would get a real office with real furniture and a full-size mail slot. What more could a guy want?

The fact is, you don't go into church work to get rich. Granted, some senior pastors of larger churches probably make what most of us would consider big salaries. In reality, most church workers—including most pastors of smaller churches—make paltry salaries, and in many cases have to work a second job just to pay their bills. The rewards come in other forms, like seeing lives change for the better. That doesn't mean it's not hard, particularly on the families. For those choosing a life in vocational ministry, there's one cliché that is absolutely valid: _No one ever said it would be easy._

After many hugs and goodbyes and a few tears (mostly mine), I walked alone across First Boulevard toward the staff parking Lot. These past six months had gone by so very fast. I remembered sitting in my parked car that first day not knowing what to expect. I'm ashamed to admit it, but back then I was intimidated and uncertain—not only about the internship, but also about my future. I had deep, unanswered questions in my soul about ministry and those who made a living doing it. But to my surprise, quoting Forest Gump here, "God showed up," and over the last six months, my cynicism about the "church" had gradually turned into hope.

I got excited seeing lives changed for the better! To see families reconciled. To see people pull together in time of great need. To see strangers with little in common become good friends. The church is a place where these types of things really happen. Sure, there's still some politics and posturing. But those are just minor sideshows to what happens under _The Big Top,_ which then spreads out into the community each week.

As I walked, I felt a rekindling of those feelings that led me into ministry training in the first place. This is what I wanted to do.

Slipping onto my front seat, I shut the car door. I sat there for a moment pondering the events of the last six months.

BAM! Something whacked the roof of my car.

"Yo, Elmo!" Eddie Hughes hollered. "You coming or going?"

"I'm on my way home." I yawned. "Today was the last day of my internship, and it's been exhausting trying to wrap things up."

"You coming back for the Singles function tonight? I'm in charge of the entertainment. I'm headed there now to set up my Karaoke machine. I'm giving it a special twist. Everyone has to dress up like the original artist of the song they're singing. I call it 'Eddie-oke.' He beamed. "I'm doing Elvis. Already had the outfit."

"Somehow I just knew that would be your choice. Just a wild guess. Sorry, Eddie, but I can't make it tonight. I need to spend some time working on my speech for my graduation ceremony. Bonnie will be there tonight, of course. She's in her office now working on the nametags or something."

"Bummer. Your loss, man. Well, y'know what— _wise men say_ . . ." Eddie started singing (badly). And with that, he was on his way toward the church, the white jumpsuit with gold embroidery slung over his shoulder.

I'd picked the best possible night to skip the Singles get-together, but Bonnie would fill me in on the details. We had a late dinner date at the Roadhouse Grill. Somehow I knew she would skip her turn at "Eddie-oke," much to Eddie's chagrin.

Bonnie dragged her bones into the restaurant about 10:00 after a thirteen-hour work day. I know that seems late for dinner, but hey—it's Friday night; we're singles in our mid-twenties with no place else to be, and we have tomorrow off. So why not?

The way I see it, the older a person gets, the earlier they "call it a night." Folks in their twenties don't get started on Friday or Saturday nights until at least nine or ten o'clock—unless, of course, they married young and have several children to tend to. By the time you turn fifty, you're getting ready for bed by nine or ten o'clock. And since most senior adults eat dinner at four in the afternoon—the always popular _Blue Plate Special_ —they're ready to hit the sack at seven.

"Hey, hun. I bet you're tired, I know I am." I gave her a kiss on the cheek, and we sat down at a booth.

"Not too bad," she said, pushing her hair back from her face. "Laughing at some of those singles making total _rear-ends_ of themselves jolted some life back into me. Juliann even told me that Eddie had his _chest waxed_ today so he could wear that hideous Elvis outfit! Oh my gosh, if only somebody had the foresight to video his performance and upload it to YouTube, it would go viral in a flash. With the support of all the Elvis wackos in the world, Eddie might just become the next William Hung."

"Please—whatever you do, _don't_ encourage him along those lines. He's already insufferable as it is."

"What? I would have thought for sure you'd want to be his manager/life coach/wardrobe mistress—"

"Stop the madness!" I pleaded mockingly, cutting her off.

I sat there quietly watching her laugh. I loved it when she laughed, and she laughed a lot. She was so much fun to be around. I mean, she had her off moments, we all do, but Bonnie was special. And then it hit me. Right there in that noisy restaurant I realized it had really happened. I'd fallen in love, and I was completely undone by it. Like the lines from the Benjamin Moody song, _Back to You_ . . .

Back in the beginning,

Love was overwhelming,

_Feeling for the first time_ . . .

This was all a new experience for me, and I liked it.

She turned serious, "Are you sad your internship has come to an end?"

"Yes and no. It's been super fun and a great learning experience. But it's part of my seminary training, and I'm ready to move on with my life."

"So then, what's next?" she asked.

I took her hand. "Now that you've had a while to think about it, what's your opinion concerning the position I've been offered by the church? Would it be weird to have me there on staff full-time? What if we ever broke up—would that be too awkward?"

She looked right into my eyes. "I hope we never break up, Elmo. I like you that much—no, I _love_ you that much. I really do. I'm just not going to give you my opinion about the job offer because I don't want to sway your feelings one way or another. Though I will fully support whatever decision you make. I believe you'll succeed wherever you decide to work."

"I respect that," I said, squeezing her hand. "I'm going to take the rest of the weekend to think and pray about it some more, then finalize my decision. I've promised Tom I'd let him know Monday."

I pivoted. "Now to the really important stuff. Let's order some food."

### The Decision

" _The disciple who abides in Jesus is the will of God, and what appears to be his free choices are actually God's foreordained decrees." Oswald Chambers_

True to my word, I spent the weekend alone. I did attend the Sunday morning worship service and sat with Bonnie, but after lunch I came back to my apartment. I allotted plenty of time for reading the Bible, particularly Proverbs, trying to glean some insight from one of the wisest men whoever lived. I also devoted quite a bit of time to prayer, earnestly looking for some direction. How to know God's will in a decision is one of the great spiritual questions of all time. This question has been answered in a variety of ways by some very intelligent men over the centuries, most way smarter than me. Mostly, I was just looking for some peace—no burning bush, no sun standing still, just some peace. By Sunday night, I'd found it, ready to forge ahead.

When Monday morning rolled around, I couldn't have been more excited or anxious. My parents drove in for the ceremony, and I could tell they were very proud. Especially my mother. The bratty kid she'd prayed over for all those years was going into the ministry. She positively glowed.

I spotted most of my new friends from First Church in the audience, cheering me on. Before the ceremony began, I had just a minute with Dr. DV who shared that he and Pastor Snooker had spoken briefly and would be meeting for lunch after graduation. He thanked me for my diplomacy, and I have to admit, I felt gratified. I also met up with Tom Applebee and gave him my decision about the church's job offer. He seemed to understand and took it well.

Bonnie pulled me out of line to encourage me and give me a kiss. Thankfully, she didn't tell me to "break a leg" because I probably would have done so, trying to please her on some subconscious Pavlovian level.

I sat with my 137 fellow graduates at the front of the middle section of the auditorium, positioned dead last in the lineup. Not because I was the dumbest or the smartest, thank you very much. But since I'd be speaking at the close of the program, this would place me on the platform at the appropriate time.

If you've ever gone through a graduation ceremony, you know it can be quite tedious waiting for your turn to walk the platform and grab your diploma. As last in line, I had some time to kill, so I took out the envelope Dunston had given me for a graduation gift. I'd promised not to open it until I graduated, but I reasoned that _technically_ I'd already graduated. The "walk" just symbolized the achievement, right? Then again, with that type of reasoning, perhaps I'd be better suited for a career in politics . . .

Opening the envelope, I pulled out a handwritten note along with a gift card for $10 at the Bait & Tackle Shop on Stone Lake. I guess he planned to take me fishing after all. His note read:

Dear Elmo,

I know the secret to the black toe thing. I'd been told 'bout it way back when I first started at the church. It's just some stupid thing started by the janitors long ago.

The way I heard it, old Deacon Smith used to have a nickname for one of the janitors whose real name was Joe Thomas. Deacon Smith called him "Black Joe." Joe was a black man, and that's just how they did things back then. Fact is, Joe and Deacon Smith was good fishin' buddies. Good friends. One day, Deacon Smith had him a bad stroke and couldn't walk or speak right no more. Mrs. Smith, she was sickly herself, so on Sunday mornin's Joe would pick 'em up in his car—help ol' Deacon Smith into his wheelchair and even sit with 'em in church. Then after the service, he'd take 'em back home and have lunch with 'em. He did that pretty much ever' Sunday 'til the old man died.

See, after his stroke, Deacon Smith would mumble when he tried to speak, and people just didn't realize he was tryin' to say "Black Joe." All's they heard was "black toe." Somehow it got all tangled up with that snow storm story, and then some of them fool-hearted janitors decided to have a little fun with it. They started hidin' those stupid messages. Then the dang thing kinda just took on a life of its own.

It be the janitors' special secret, passed on from generation to generation with one of them guys taking turns to "stoke the fire" ever' now 'n then with a new note or some such.

I never had much use for all that shenanigan, but I kept those feelin's to myself. I figured now, being as I'm retirin' with the cleanin' service takin' over, it's time to spill them beans about that whole black toe thing.

So there you goes. Now you know. Happy graduation.

— _Dunston_

P.S. I saw you was lookin' into this stuff, so I put that coaster in yo' book hoping you'd catch on. I pulled it outta Pastor's trash can. That message—that be my doin'.

I couldn't believe it. First Aaron Spencer, then Fred Snooker, me of course, and a whole host of other folks—we'd _all_ been totally fooled by the maintenance staff—and for decades and decades! A practical joke of gargantuan proportions! I could only imagine the laughs those janitors had shared through the years whenever they'd hear the different pastors and staff talking about _The Black Toe_ mystery, or when that article in the city paper came out about it. Pastor Snooker would be beside himself.

I couldn't help but smile.

The last row of graduates filed across the platform. My turn had come. I had just enough time for a final pre-speech Elmo checklist:

Notes in hand—check

Fly closed—check

Shoes tied—check

Voice clear—"Test, test."—check

Nose clear—check

As I climbed the steps to the platform, Dr. McGregor began his introduction.

"And finally, our last graduate this morning is Ellington Jenkins. Ellington is receiving his Masters of Religious Education and has been chosen by his peers to deliver this year's closing remarks."

I walked up to the podium just a tad nervous. Cap and gown firmly in place, I looked out on the audience, so many of them I knew.

_How did I get here_?

Then I began my remarks slowly, deliberately.

"Thank you, Dr. McGregor. Nothing could've surprised me more than to be told I'd been chosen to give the final remarks at this year's seminary commencement service. I am greatly humbled by this opportunity.

"Today's graduates, those seated together here at the front of this auditorium, are the new world-changers. Some, you will become familiar with by name as they move into high-profile ministries and agencies of our world. Others will minister in total obscurity in the far outer reaches of our globe. But all of them will be of equal importance to the ministry of Christ. We celebrate their achievements today."

A warm and extended round of applause arose spontaneously from those in the audience. Even some cheers.

As it died down, I continued. "When I came to Harvest Morgan Seminary, I came searching. Today I leave with purpose. When I arrived at the seminary, I arrived uncertain. Today I leave with a confidence anchored in faith. These changes did not happen overnight. In my case, it took the full force of the program and a huge portion of God's grace to bring me to this place today. I'm sure many of my fellow graduates would admit to a similar experience.

"The Old Testament tells us, 'Where there is no vision the people perish.' As one representing all of my fellow graduates, I would like to thank the seminary staff, the faculty, the trustees, and all those who support the seminary for giving us the chance and the encouragement to seize that vision. To boldly become the world-changers God has called us to be."

Another round of applause broke out, and some of the gowned graduates actually stood out of gratitude to the school and the faculty.

"On a personal note, I would like to thank my family. Without your love and support, I would not be standing here today. And for all of you who have mentored me in the faith along the way, my victory today is your victory as well. A special thanks to Tom Applebee and my new family at First Church who took me in and changed my life. By the way, I said yes." As I looked out at them, I couldn't help grinning. "See you all in January."

To my right, Harry Simpkins shouted out, "All right!" followed by Fran noisily shushing him. I smiled and continued.

"This has been quite a day for a young man like me. Not only am I graduating from seminary, but I've also accepted my first full-time church position. I've seen two dear friends start the process of reconciling their friendship after thirty years of feuding. And I have finally, _finally_ found out the truth behind _The Black Toe Enigma_. For most of you that means nothing, but for others in this room, it represents the answer to a one-hundred-year-old mystery. Pastor Snooker, I'll give you the details on that later." He waved with a smile, obviously pleased.

"And now, if you'll indulge me just one last item. Moments like this, full of confidence, adrenaline, and excitement are rare and must be maximized to their fullest. With that in mind, I share the following. One of the unexpected benefits of my internship at First Church was my acquaintance with Bonnie St. Hiliare. God took pity on me and brought this angel into my life, and I know now that I love her more deeply than life itself."

I stopped for a moment, fixing my eyes on her beautiful face. "Bonnie, at the risk of rejection in front of all of these people, and with the deepest humility and resolute sincerity, I need to ask you a question today . . ." I stepped to the side of the pulpit and dropped to one knee, locking my eyes on Bonnie's once again. "Would you be my wife?"

A sudden hush fell over the auditorium. Then Bonnie slowly rose from her seat, her eyes glistening, focused solely on me. For a moment, she said nothing. My heart pounded. She bowed her head briefly then looked back up at me, a tear escaping down her cheek. Then, with the sweetest smile I've ever seen, she quietly responded with three words I'll never forget.

"As you wish."

The room exploded with cheering and applause. Though I was tempted to do a jumping fist-pump, I chose instead to just blow her a kiss. I would wait for a real one later. A deep sense of accomplishment and of peace swept over me. So much had come to fruition in one grand moment. As I stood there drinking it all in, I'm pretty sure I felt God's hand resting gently on my shoulder.

The crowd quieted down and returned to their seats. I had one more thing to say.

"I can see now this is going to be a day to remember."

And it was.

In a well-furnished kitchen, there are not only crystal goblets and silver platters, but waste cans and compost buckets—some containers used to serve fine meals, others to take out the garbage. Become the kind of container God can use to present any and every kind of gift to his guests for their blessing. 2 Timothy 2:20-21 (MSG)

Thanks for reading **Elmo Jenkins Book One**. For your reading pleasure you'll find Chapter 1 of Book Two **(Some Things Never Change)** in the **Elmo Jenkins** series starting on the next page.

### The Metaphor

A bell rang out over the murmur of the crowd as I tugged against the rope holding my hands behind my back, firmly to the stake. The air, thick with the stench of sweat and smoke, caused me to gag and cough. I'd been stripped to the waist, and the coarseness of the wooden pole gnawed into the flesh of my exposed back. The pain was excruciating.

The large pile of kindling beneath my feet elevated me high above the rabble. I surveyed their dirty faces, ten to fifteen people deep in all directions. All eyes were on me. They'd come for a cheap thrill, a visceral jolt, hoping to add a small portion of meaning to their meaningless lives.

A squire, wearing what looked like balloon culottes and tights, stepped forward and unfurled a parchment scroll. He shouted out to the gathering:

Hear ye, hear ye. By order of the First Council under the leadership of Cardinal Fitzsimons, we today bring judgment against one Friar Jenkins for sedition against First Church and its people. After exhaustive interrogations, we have concluded that this man sought to change our great church and its venerable way of life. His actions and words threaten the very sacred traditions by which our church was founded and is even to this day sustained.

We did not take lightly the responsibility of this somber task. After careful, assiduous consideration the First Council has decided our only viable course of action is to excise this cancer from our midst. And so today we gather, not with joy, but with sadness to condemn this man, Friar Jenkins into eternity through fire.

. . . _through fire_? That got my full attention. "Hey, wait, wait . . . WAIT!" I pulled harder at the rope binding my hands.

The bell rang a second time intensifying the urgency, electrifying the crowd.

Cardinal Fitzsimons rose from a throne-like chair at the center of a crudely fashioned platform. "I'm afraid the time for appeals has come and gone. At the third ringing of the bell the fire will be lit and you, Friar Jenkins, will indeed burn to death. May God save your soul."

The crowd morphed into a mob.

"Start the fire."

"He's so smart—let him try re-educatin' the devil!"

"Change us, will he?"

"Why wait for the bell?"

"To hell with his new methods!"

"Let him burn!"

"And burn those drums and guitars while you're at it!"

Wait just a minute . . . drums and guitars? I sat up in bed. The bell rang a third time. It was my cell phone.

I yawned, "Hello?"

"Hey, good lookin'. You outta bed yet? This is a big day, and you don't want to be late."

Bonnie's a morning person. If we're gonna get married, we'll have to dial that down a notch or two.

"Nah, I was dreaming. No, make that a nightmare." I eased back down on my pillow. "The First Council under Cardinal Fitzsimons was burning me at the stake. You should have seen the pants this squire dude had on."

She laughed. "Elmo, you and your dreams. You haven't even started your new job, and you're already worrying about it in your sleep. It's actually quite pathetic." She laughed even louder.

"Thanks for the sympathetic ear." I quickly sat back up. "Hey, do you think it could be a metaphor?"

She muted her laughter, but I could feel her smirking. "What, the guy in the fussy trousers?"

"No, no, the whole dream about me being torched for introducing and promoting change." I paused as a shiver raced up my spine. "Man, I hate it when dreams become metaphors. As a matter of fact, I'm over metaphors all together. I wish people would just say straight out what they mean and skip all the symbolic double talk."

"Here's what I think," she said, her laughter now totally gone. "I think you need to get your over-analyzing fanny out of bed and into the shower, or you're gonna be late for one of the _most important days_ of your young life!"

I hopped out of bed. "Okay, okay. I'll see you at church. Love ya. Bye." I hung up the phone.

I thought I knew Bonnie St. Hiliare pretty well when I asked her to marry me, but I'd grown to believe she just might have a touch of schizophrenia. One moment she was Bonnie—my beautiful, warm, encouraging fiancée; the next moment she became my mother telling me to get out of bed, or my boss showing me how to do my job. On rare occasions she even transformed into the lady DMV clerk with a mustache telling me to take a number, shut my mouth, grab a seat, and wait my turn.

But this time she was absolutely right. My new job as "assistant to the pastor" officially kicked off in about two hours. I needed to be there early, well-nourished, and ready to hit the ground running.

I still remember it like it was yesterday—the afternoon Dr. Jorgenson and Smitty Fitzsimons offered me the job.

" _If you agree to join our staff, we'll be creating a new position just for you. Your main responsibility will be to research and oversee a First Church transition strategy designed to take our church into the future. The bottom line is that either First Church starts reaching and assimilating younger folks into the life of our church, or there won't be a First Church to worry about twenty-five years from now."_

By saying yes to the new position, I took on a huge responsibility ergo the nightmares. Yet I felt God leading me to accept their offer, so if I get burned at the stake, _que sera_.

Oswald Chambers, who once famously said, "reach beyond your grasp," also wrote:

Jesus says, I have come for the man who knows he has a bigger handful than he can cope with, who knows there are forces he cannot touch; I will do everything for him if he will let Me. Only let a man grant he needs it, and I will do it for him.

That's the man I want to be, and today is that day.

As I prepared to shave, I glanced down and noticed rope burns around both my wrists. _Uh oh. S_ _tigmata alert . . ._

Weird. I was taking these dreams way too seriously.

McMillian Moody lives quietly in the rolling hills of central Tennessee with his wife, celebrated author Diane Moody.

He would love to hear from you! You can email him at:

mcmillianmoody@gmail.com

or go to www.mcmillianmoody.com,

## Cast of Characters

### Primary Cast

**Adrianne Figghie** – Tom Applebee's secretary (aka Miss Figghie)

**Annette May Jorgensen** – Dr. Jorgensen's wife (aka Queen Bee) Sister of Smitty Fitzsimons, and Geraldine Fitzsimons O'Leary

**Bernard Coggins** – Minister of Pastoral Ministries; Horse lover.

**Bob "Big Bird" Stevens** – Church Administrator and Financial Director. Second residence in Cayman Islands.

**Bonnie St. Hiliare** – Secretary for the Singles Ministry and Elmo's girlfriend

**Dr. Auguste "Augie" De Villa** (aka Dr. DV) – Elmo's seminary advisor and arch-enemy of Rev. Fred Snooker

**Dr. Horace Jorgensen** – Dr. Jorgensen is the Head Pastor of First Church and an avid golfer. Husband of the "Queen Bee" Annette May Jorgensen. Brother-in-law of Smitty Fitzsimons.

**Dunston Jones** – Retiring custodian, expert angler, and Elmo's office furniture supplier extraordinaire.

**Eddie Hughes** – Single adult regular and self-avowed ladies man. Suffers from severe foot-in-mouth affliction.

**Ellington Montgomery "Elmo" Jenkins** – Seminary student and intern at First Church.

**Erlene Markham** – Retired missionary and Altar Counseling Room Coordinator. Infamous jokester/prankster.

**First Church** – Historic downtown church with a large "well-heeled" congregation.

**Harry Simpkins** – Minister of Music, notorious for his many escapades and adventures.

**Juliann Roth** – Church Receptionist and former beauty queen. Rocket science novice.

**Rev. Fred Snooker** – Retired former Assistant Pastor and current Interim Pastor for Senior Adults. "Keeper of the Lore" for _The Black Toe Enigma_. Nemesis of Dr. Auguste De Villa.

**Smithson "Smitty" Fitzsimons** – Brother-in-law of Dr. Jorgensen and power broker at First Church. Brother of "Queen Bee" Annette May Jorgensen. Fabulously wealthy.

**Thurman "Thurm" Wilson** – Youth Pastor at First Church and Elmo's best friend

**Tom Applebee** – Second-in-command at First Church and Elmo's direct supervisor.

### Secondary Cast

**Alex Leichhardt** – Sunday School Director _par excellence_

**Alise D'Porte** – Thurm Wilson's one-time girlfriend

**Bess Roper** – Dr. De Villa's student assistant and resident seminary gossip and ...

**Betty Darby** – The Queen Bee's personal assistant

**Bonnie Johnstone** – Church Librarian and resident First Church gossip

**Deacon Wiley Smith** – Legendary Deacon and center of _The Black Toe Enigma_. Deceased (1936).

**Debbie Jesper** –State Scrabble champion

**Dolly Ehler** – Smitty Fitzsimons's niece and Elmo's one-time date. Shrew

**Doreen McGinty** – Children's Ministry Director. The _Kid Whisperer_.

**Dr. Buster Sapp** – Dr. Jorgensen's predecessor. Former president-elect of the _Women's Missionary Union._ Deceased (1969).

**Emily, Beatrice, and Fanny** (aka _The Three Widows_ ) – Live together, dress alike, finish each other's sentences. Three-headed troika of warm lovin'.

**Fran Bruker** – Dr. Jorgensen's secretary. Intimidator of horses.

**Geneva Fitzsimons** _–_ Smitty Fitzsimons's wife and lousy poem writer/performer.

**Geraldine Fitzsimons O'Leary** – Church soloist and matriarch of the Fitzsimons family. _Keeper of the High C_.

**Hartzel "Harty" Wiley Smith** – Great-great-grandson of Deacon Wiley Smith and golfing partner to Dr. Jorgensen and Smitty Fitzsimons. Low-grade gymnastic skills.

**Hugo Withers** – Former Minister to Senior Adults. Deceased (1999).

**Jacob Phillips** – Deacon, now deceased.

**Jeffrey Phillips** – Twin brother of Jacob Phillips.

**Jeremy Cantor** – Emotionally disturbed church member.

**Joe Thomas** – Former church custodian, fishing buddy of Deacon Wiley Smith (aka _Black Joe_ )

**Johnny Rochelle** – Recreation Director and Queen Bee's lackey.

**Scotty Lichen** – Middle school boy who almost falls off the top of the church building.

**Justin Kryder** – Young single man in hospital with heart problems.

**Katie Cotese** – Young single woman in church, pregnant, but not married.

**Louis Estrada** – Minister to Singles and Bonnie St. Hiliare's boss.

**Peg Leahy** – Bonnie St. Hiliare's roommate and Elmo's seminary classmate.

**Ramona Holloway** – Harry Simpkins's assistant. Yikes!

**Ramona Muscarella** – Died in hospital; recipient of Elmo's first funeral.

1. Taken from _My Utmost for His Highest_ by Oswald Chambers, © 1935 by Dodd Mead & Co., renewed © 1963 by the Oswald Chambers Publications Assn., Ltd. Used by permission of Discovery House Publishers, Grand Rapids MI 4950l. All rights reserved.

2. _Back to You_ – Written by Benjamin Moody, Old Barn Trace Music Copyright © 2011 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TewdYqvtfDM

3. Scripture taken from _The Message_. Copyright © 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 2000, 2001, 2002. Used by permission of NavPress Publishing Group.

