glaring at Dale.
Bob Miles, who’d been sitting quietly in the corner taking notes, lifted a camera from a bag at his feet. “While we have everybody here together, let’s get a picture for the Herald. Everyone give me a big smile. On the count of three. One, two, think of your mother and smile, and three.” His flash lit up the room.
“Bob, please don’t write about this,” Sam pleaded. “The church doesn’t need bad press.”
“Can I take that as an official ‘No comment’?” Bob asked, pulling his notebook from his back pocket.
Sam sighed and glanced at his watch. Eight forty-five and his day had already gone to Hades in a handbasket.
His father had tried to warn him that ministry would be like this. Sam still remembered the day when he’d told his parents he felt called to the pastorate.
His father had buried his face in his hands and groaned in deep, existential pain. “A minister? Why a minister? Why not be a lawyer? You’d make a good lawyer. But a minister? It’s the worst job in the world, let me tell you. People calling you all hours of the day, complaining about first one thing and then another. Rotten pay. And forget about job security. You make the wrong person mad and you’re out the door like that,” he said, with a snap of his fingers.
Sam’s mother had smiled sweetly and patted his knee. “It is a rotten job, dear. Are you sure you want to do that with your life?”
“Well, I thought I did,” Sam had said.
Now there are days he wishes they’d have clubbed him over the head until he’d come to his senses. Today was one of those days.
Frank shooed everyone from Sam’s office, then settled himself into the chair across Sam’s desk. “Well, you really blew it this time,” he said.
“I didn’t do anything,” Sam protested. “How come everyone’s blaming me?”
“You’re the pastor, that’s why. Anything bad happens and it’s your fault. You ought to know that by now.” Frank grinned, clearly enjoying Sam’s predicament.
Sam slumped in his chair. “Boy, I work my tail off trying to get this church to grow, trying to attract intelligent, capable people to our meeting, and Dale Hinshaw ruins it all in an hour’s time. No one will want to come here now.”
“I don’t agree, Sam. I think people like Dale will want to come here. They probably liked his phone call.”
Sam moaned, barely able to stand the thought of Dale’s spiritual cronies filling the meetinghouse.
“The good thing is, people like Dale are tithers,” Frank said, trying to look on the bright side. “They pony up the bucks. Maybe now I’ll get that raise you’ve been promising me.”
“What’s this I hear about you and Miss Rudy?” Sam asked, changing the subject, something he did whenever Frank raised the subject of a pay increase.
Frank bristled. “My personal life is none of your concern.”
“So when are you going to make an honest woman out of her?” Sam persisted. “It’s not too late for a summer wedding, you know. People your age shouldn’t postpone happiness. Never know when you might shuffle off to glory.”
“There was a time when ministers were well-mannered,” Frank said, stalking out of Sam’s office.
“Yeah, and there was a time when church secretaries didn’t badger their bosses,” Sam yelled back.
They had these spats often, Frank and Sam. They circled one another like two old tomcats, the fight gone out of them but still able to hiss and spit.
Sam busied himself with paperwork for a couple of hours. At eleven-thirty, Frank stuck his head in the office door, somewhat mollified. “How about a little lunch?”
“Coffee Cup?”
“Sounds good to me,” Frank said agreeably.
Frank locked the meetinghouse door as they left.
“Why’d you do that?” Sam asked.
“Because it drives Dale nuts,” Frank said. “He’ll come by and want in and the church will be locked.”
“I thought you gave him a key.”
“Oh, that. That was the key to my garage,
Bob Miles, who’d been sitting quietly in the corner taking notes, lifted a camera from a bag at his feet. “While we have everybody here together, let’s get a picture for the Herald. Everyone give me a big smile. On the count of three. One, two, think of your mother and smile, and three.” His flash lit up the room.
“Bob, please don’t write about this,” Sam pleaded. “The church doesn’t need bad press.”
“Can I take that as an official ‘No comment’?” Bob asked, pulling his notebook from his back pocket.
Sam sighed and glanced at his watch. Eight forty-five and his day had already gone to Hades in a handbasket.
His father had tried to warn him that ministry would be like this. Sam still remembered the day when he’d told his parents he felt called to the pastorate.
His father had buried his face in his hands and groaned in deep, existential pain. “A minister? Why a minister? Why not be a lawyer? You’d make a good lawyer. But a minister? It’s the worst job in the world, let me tell you. People calling you all hours of the day, complaining about first one thing and then another. Rotten pay. And forget about job security. You make the wrong person mad and you’re out the door like that,” he said, with a snap of his fingers.
Sam’s mother had smiled sweetly and patted his knee. “It is a rotten job, dear. Are you sure you want to do that with your life?”
“Well, I thought I did,” Sam had said.
Now there are days he wishes they’d have clubbed him over the head until he’d come to his senses. Today was one of those days.
Frank shooed everyone from Sam’s office, then settled himself into the chair across Sam’s desk. “Well, you really blew it this time,” he said.
“I didn’t do anything,” Sam protested. “How come everyone’s blaming me?”
“You’re the pastor, that’s why. Anything bad happens and it’s your fault. You ought to know that by now.” Frank grinned, clearly enjoying Sam’s predicament.
Sam slumped in his chair. “Boy, I work my tail off trying to get this church to grow, trying to attract intelligent, capable people to our meeting, and Dale Hinshaw ruins it all in an hour’s time. No one will want to come here now.”
“I don’t agree, Sam. I think people like Dale will want to come here. They probably liked his phone call.”
Sam moaned, barely able to stand the thought of Dale’s spiritual cronies filling the meetinghouse.
“The good thing is, people like Dale are tithers,” Frank said, trying to look on the bright side. “They pony up the bucks. Maybe now I’ll get that raise you’ve been promising me.”
“What’s this I hear about you and Miss Rudy?” Sam asked, changing the subject, something he did whenever Frank raised the subject of a pay increase.
Frank bristled. “My personal life is none of your concern.”
“So when are you going to make an honest woman out of her?” Sam persisted. “It’s not too late for a summer wedding, you know. People your age shouldn’t postpone happiness. Never know when you might shuffle off to glory.”
“There was a time when ministers were well-mannered,” Frank said, stalking out of Sam’s office.
“Yeah, and there was a time when church secretaries didn’t badger their bosses,” Sam yelled back.
They had these spats often, Frank and Sam. They circled one another like two old tomcats, the fight gone out of them but still able to hiss and spit.
Sam busied himself with paperwork for a couple of hours. At eleven-thirty, Frank stuck his head in the office door, somewhat mollified. “How about a little lunch?”
“Coffee Cup?”
“Sounds good to me,” Frank said agreeably.
Frank locked the meetinghouse door as they left.
“Why’d you do that?” Sam asked.
“Because it drives Dale nuts,” Frank said. “He’ll come by and want in and the church will be locked.”
“I thought you gave him a key.”
“Oh, that. That was the key to my garage,
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