Read Online Home to Harmony by Philip Gulley - Free Book Online

Americans series, but there are deeper blessings to be had.

Eight
Burma-Shave
    W hen I was growing up, after church on Sundays we would eat dinner at my grandparents’ house. At precisely twelve-thirty the grandfather clock in the downstairs hallway would dong, which signaled that dinner was on the table. The children would come in from the front yard, the men would rise up from the rockers on the porch, and we would make our way in to the feast.
    Except on the last Sunday of the month, which was when we had to stay after church for the monthly business meeting. On that day, we ate cold meat loaf sandwiches left over from my grandmother’s Saturday night meat loaf. The cold meat loaf sandwiches were the highlight of the day. I’d put ketchup on mine and squish the bread flat around the meat, then dip it in ketchup again to ease the dryness.
    The business meetings were long and tedious, chock-full of detailed reports on trifling matters. The meeting would begin with a devotional thought fromBob Miles Sr., former editor of The Harmony Herald and teacher of the Live Free or Die Sunday school class. Bob Sr. would begin by recalling how much of the week he’d spent in earnest prayer, seeking God’s counsel on what message he might bring. But it was obvious to us that Bob had forgotten all about the devotional until that very moment and was merely biding his time until a thought worth sharing came to mind. The devotional took fifteen minutes and always ended with Bob cautioning against the United Nations.
    After the devotional thought, the meeting clerk would call for the treasurer’s report. The head usher, Dale Hinshaw, would bring forward the Florsheim shoebox where he stored the month’s offering and would spread the money on a table and count it in front of everyone. Twice. Pastor Taylor often said that if we gave, a good measure would be given to us. Pressed down, shaken together, and running over. But in all the years I’ve been here, I’ve never seen Dale’s shoebox run over.
    The best part of the monthly business meeting was when the elders gave their report. The elders were a fascination to me—upright saints of the church, meeting in the basement on the third Thursday of every month to shepherd us along. They would keep careful notes, which they shared with the rest of us, except when it concerned certain scandalous topics that could not be made public. Then they would just say, “We discussed several matters of a confidential nature.”
    That always intrigued me. I would sit in the fifth pew and speculate about such things. My father was an elder, and I would try to pry information from him tono avail. He would look at me and say, “There’s some things you’re better off not knowing.”
    I’d reply, “Why don’t you tell me what they are, and let me be the judge of that?” He would fix me with a long stare.
    I always wanted to be an elder and learn the church’s secrets, so you can imagine my delight when I became the pastor and started attending the elders’ meetings down in the basement on the third Thursday of every month.
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    T he delight was short-lived. At the June meeting, Dale Hinshaw asked for prayers for his nephew who, after siring five children in six years, had gotten a vasectomy and was in great pain. The doctor told him to keep ice on it, but his wife had forgotten to fill the ice trays so he used a bag of frozen peas instead. His children kept asking why their daddy was walking around with frozen peas in his underwear.
    Dale said, “That’s not all of it. He doesn’t sleep well, on account of his thin eyelids and the streetlights keep him up. He doesn’t get near enough sleep. Three, maybe four hours a night. He’s having a time of it.”
    We promised to pray for him, then quickly moved on to another subject, not wanting to dwell on Dale’s nephew with thin eyelids and peas in his