The Visitation Part 29

C'mon, Trav, two more stalls to go.

G.o.d was in control. He knew what he was doing, and he knew what I needed.

Then my heart sank and my arms went limp. I'd failed again. I'd married the most beautiful woman in the world, given her high hopes, and let her down. She was the one supporting us, not me. I thought I was going to take the city for Christ, and now here I was, alone and scrubbing toilets in the middle of the night.

My "position" at Northwest Pentecostal Mission remained undefined by the pastor or the board. I wasn't a.s.sociate pastor or youth pastor, I didn't preach on Sunday nights, and Lucy Moore still had charge of the youth Sunday school cla.s.s. I did whatever was left to do-it was up to me to think of what that was-and I got paid fifty dollars a month plus a gas allowance to do it. I think Pastor Marvin tried to apologize once, but his expression of regret quickly s.h.i.+fted into a short homily about the Lord using all this to show me the importance of sacrifice. It seemed rather convenient for him to find a lofty, inscrutable purpose of G.o.d in his foul-up, but I held my peace.

The church in Pocatello, Idaho, had found someone else for that position. I checked.

17.

IT WAS MARIAN, G.o.d bless her, who helped me turn it around-or rather, turn myself around. I still remember the evening I lay on the couch with my head in her lap. I had tears in my eyes, but she just stroked my hair and told me, "Travis, you're a man of G.o.d and this is your calling. Don't worry about me having to work. Just be faithful. Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might. G.o.d will do the rest." She tilted my head toward her and I looked up into her eyes. "And I will always love you, T. J. You're my man, and don't you forget it."

I called Lucy Moore and apologized for all the misunderstanding. I didn't want to take over, I told her. I just wanted to help. Could I? She said sure.

At work that night I finished up each rest room in less than an hour.

Wednesday evening, one of my nights off, Marian and I showed up to help Lucy with the youth meeting. I played guitar and helped lead the singing. We goaded and challenged the kids during discussion times. We did anything we could to help while letting Lucy be the boss. It clicked. Before long we were all team teaching the Sunday school cla.s.s. We worked together planning a camping trip to Corral Pa.s.s, and it came off without a hitch.

After I'd been on the job two months, the boss let me try my hand at the big mall sweeper. Now that was fun, driving that thing up and down the vast floor, buzzing past all the store windows and around the big central pillars, singing praise songs only the Lord could hear. How many shoppers ever got a chance to visit the mall as I did?

For the first month I took care of mowing the church lawn, and then Lucy, Marian, and I organized a work day for the youth group to mow, weed, and fix up the church grounds. The kids did a great job, and we were proud of them. I rewarded them by taking them all swimming.

Sister Marvin heard that some of the girls wore two-piece swimsuits and walked right by the groomed lawn to give me a stern rebuke. It was the first feedback I'd gotten from her.

THE SUNDAY SCHOOL CLa.s.s was perking up. We got into heavy discussions about morality, s.e.x, authority, respect for others, honesty, and what the Scriptures had to say about it all. The kids opened up about school, friends, parents, hopes and fears, what was cool and what wasn't. We talked about Bible prophecy and how it could apply to happenings in the Middle East. Even Trevor and the Outsiders got wrapped up in it. They talked about inviting their friends.

When they didn't invite their friends, I asked them why not.

They said they didn't want their friends to have to sing "Deep and Wide" and "Climb, Climb Up Suns.h.i.+ne Mountain" and march up front to put money in Barney Barrel.

Well, that seemed an easy enough problem to overcome. I told Lucy, "Hey, why don't we just have them come straight to cla.s.s and not sit through the opening exercises? They never get anything out of them anyway."

Lucy balked. "Um, we'll have to talk to Sister Dwight. She's the Sunday school superintendent."

Sister Dwight didn't jump at the idea either. "You'll have to bring it up at the next Sunday school teachers' meeting."

The meeting was after church the first Sunday of the month. We were there and we brought it up.

And that's how I got to know Sister Rogenbeck.

She was an ancient lady who taught the primary cla.s.s, and by the look on her face you'd think we suggested denying the virgin birth and the resurrection. She scolded me as she answered, "The children are to be together for the morning exercises!"

Being young and inexperienced, I tried to reason with her. "Well, that's okay for the little kids, but the teenagers don't have any interest in that stuff."

"Then they can learn to have interest."

"You think kids who listen to the Rolling Stones and Led Zeppelin are going to want to come here to sing *Deep and Wide'?"

She crossed her arms and looked toward the front of the sanctuary. "They belong in the morning exercises with everyone else!"

From her body language I gathered she thought the discussion was over.

It wasn't.

"Do you agree with her?" I asked Sister Dwight.

Sister Dwight gave me a deep, slow nod as if the Word of the Lord had come down from Mt. Sinai.

"But aren't you the Sunday School superintendent?"

She was mildly offended. "Of course I am."

I turned to Sister Rogenbeck. "So what are you?"

She didn't answer but just kept looking forward, her arms crossed.

"Look at me." Marian tugged at my arm but I ignored it and demanded, "Look at me!"

Sister Dwight became indignant. "Travis, I don't think this is appropriate!"

Sister Rogenbeck's head and eyes turned toward me only as much as necessary.

"Are you the Sunday school superintendent?" I asked her.

Sister Marvin's indignity surpa.s.sed that of Sister Dwight. "Travis Jordan, that will be quite enough!"

"Are you?"

"No."

"Do you hold any elected office whatsoever in this church?"

"No."

"Then who are you to sit there and dictate policy to the rest of us?"

"Trav . . ." Marian whispered, tugging at me.

"My question was addressed to the Sunday school superintendent, and I expect the decision to rest with her." I looked straight at Sister Dwight. "It is your decision, isn't it?"

"Well-"

Sister Rogenbeck huffed rather loudly, "They belong in the morning exercises!"

"I was asking Sister Dwight," I said.

But Sister Marvin answered, "Travis, that's the way we do things!"

I stayed on that merry-go-round for another twenty minutes, going round and round, hearing the same tune over and over and getting madder and madder. In the end, I accomplished nothing more than getting everyone upset, including myself. I was permanently angry with Sister Rogenbeck and permanently in the gunsights of Sister Marvin. I never did get an answer from Sister Dwight.

And our Sunday school cla.s.s continued to sit through "Deep and Wide" and march to put money in Barney Barrel. It was, after all, the way we did things.

But the Wednesday night youth meeting held great promise. The time was all ours. We could lay out our own format. We painted posters, made announcements, and got the kids making announcements. I visited the junior high and high school as often as I could just to make contact with the kids. Marian and I attended the games, the concerts, the plays-anything that would get us close to them.

The meetings began to grow. We were singing, wors.h.i.+ping, getting excited about Jesus. The fellows.h.i.+p hall began to fill up and we ran out of chairs. The kids brought pillows and sat on the floor. Shy Brian turned out to be a pretty good guitar player and I got him up front to help me lead wors.h.i.+p. Then a kid named Robbie joined us on electric ba.s.s. As soon as they were clicking, I switched to doing fills on my banjo, which I plugged in for volume. We got into the Word and the kids started praying.

And then Sister Marvin called a meeting.

"I think you can find instruments more appropriate for wors.h.i.+p!" she said archly.

We were sitting in Pastor Marvin's office, just the Marvins and me. I could tell she'd already had a pre-meeting with her husband to get him in line.

"There's nothing wrong with our instruments," I said. "The kids are into it. I've even got two of them playing up front."

"Playing rock-'n'- roll in church!"

"It isn't rock-'n'-roll. It's contemporary wors.h.i.+p."

She rolled her eyes in disgust. "Well I don't believe that! I saw the electric guitar!"

"That's a ba.s.s."

"We could hear you clear upstairs."

Pastor Marvin ventured, "At least they were singing." It was very bold of him.

She stared a few daggers at him and then conceded, "Well, I might be able to put up with the guitar, but the banjo!" Then she rolled her eyes again, sending a loud and clear message of disdain that I took personally.

Pastor Marvin offered, "Why can't Marian play the piano?"

"We don't have one down there," I answered. "The only piano this church has is in the sanctuary."

"Then maybe you should just join the adults upstairs," said Sister Marvin.

I thought of all those kids finally coming around, finally getting excited because something new was happening, something just for them. I thought of them having to listen to Sister Marvin play the organ and sit through one of Pastor Marvin's sermons. "That's not going to happen."

Bull's-eye. I hit her primer and the powder exploded. "Excuse me?"

I was angry enough-and just plain right enough-to face her down. "That's not going to happen." I turned to the pastor and said, "Our youth group has grown from a dozen to over forty and I expect it to grow even more if we can just be left alone to do what we're doing. If that's agreeable with you, then I'd like your approval."

"We don't approve," Sister Marvin answered. "Not at all!"

I leaned over Pastor Marvin's desk, looking him right in the eye and effectively blocking out the partic.i.p.ation of his wife. "I would like your approval, sir."

He looked at her, and I could read her signals in his face. "Well, you're doing a good job, but you need to be careful, Travis." He glanced at his wife. No doubt he would have to say more if he wanted dinner tonight. "We'll have to talk about it. We'll work something out."

The banjo stayed, as did the guitar and the electric ba.s.s. Pastor Marvin declined to confront us, and the youth group grew to over sixty on a Wednesday night. Sister Marvin derived no joy from that fact. Sister Rogenbeck wouldn't look at me even if I was standing right in front of her. Bill Braun, the board member, demanded I turn in every gas receipt directly to him, and then he grilled me for any and all details.

TWO GIRLS, Cindy and Clarice, along with shy Brian and Robbie the ba.s.s player, had formed a nice quartet and volunteered to sing a special number for the Sunday evening service. Because they were there, about twelve of their friends were there as well, so we had sixteen teenagers willingly turning out for church on Sunday night. I was sure Sister Marvin would be pleased.

When their turn came, Cindy, Clarice, Brian, and Robbie took their places in the front of the sanctuary, nervous but excited. The two boys started an introduction on their guitars, and- Amos Rogenbeck, Sister Rogenbeck's husband, growled at them from his reserved, exclusive, usable-only-by-a-Rogenbeck place in the pew, "Young people, I'll thank you not to stand in front of the altar!"

The musical introduction stopped cold. The kids didn't know what to do. They looked at each other. They looked at me. I got up from my seat on the platform and showed the kids a better place to stand, over in front of the piano.

Shy Brian whispered, "What'd we do wrong?"

"Nothing," I whispered back. "Just sing for Jesus."

I'd heard them sing before and they were great. This night, thanks to Amos Rogenbeck, their song fell apart and they sat down humiliated. The incident was not wasted on their friends. After the service, I scrambled to talk to as many kids as I could before they all left bitter and disillusioned. Some got away, and I knew it would take weeks to repair the damage.

But Brother Rogenbeck didn't get away. That would have happened over my dead body. I pulled him aside for a discreet, private confrontation. "Brother Rogenbeck, you embarra.s.sed and hurt those kids tonight-"

"They should show respect for the altar!"

"They meant no harm by it. They were nervous, they just wanted to sing for the Lord and minister-"

"Young brats don't have any respect! You should be teaching them that!"

I grabbed his arm and got right in his face. "Now you listen to me! These kids mean the world to me and they just want to glorify Jesus. If you embarra.s.s them again-are you listening to me?-I'm going to embarra.s.s you. We're having a private meeting now, but next time it'll be in front of everyone, you understand?"

"You need to show respect!"

I would have had a more fruitful conversation with a grapefruit.

WE WERE PUs.h.i.+NG SIXTY in attendance, almost filling the fellows.h.i.+p hall. The wors.h.i.+p music was great. Cindy, Clarice, Brian, and Robbie finally got a chance to sing their number and do it right. The kids spoke right up during our sharing time, telling the others what the Lord had done in their lives over the past week. We had some new kids attending. Everything was going great-until the night we discovered a mouse behind the door.

The fellows.h.i.+p hall had rest rooms and a stairway at one end, a kitchen at the other, and doors to the Sunday school rooms on the sides. As I stood up to speak, I thought I heard a noise from the room directly behind me and glanced at it. That door, like all the others, was closed. I went on teaching, telling ill.u.s.trative stories, cracking jokes, getting laughs.

And then I heard the noise again. A squeak. Some rustling.

Two girls sitting in the front row started chittering to each other, pointing toward the door and apparently seeing movement under it. Pretty soon, five in the front row were looking. Finally, one of them squealed, "There's a mouse in there!"

Announce the presence of a mouse to thirty teenage girls sitting on the floor and thirty teenage guys who would love to catch it, and you will have a roomful of kids who aren't interested in the triumphal entry. I went to the door.

"Don't open it!" a girl shrieked.

"All right!" said the guys.

I jerked the door open and everybody screamed.