He was ready. Today the congregation of Heavenly Daze Community Church would experience a sermon unlike any they'd ever heard before. For today they would not only hear about Habakkuk's prayer, but they would see and touch and taste . . . a full sensory experience, courtesy of the Portland Theatrical Company and Winslow Wickam's special effects.
Feeling the pressure of two dozen pairs of curious eyesâincluding those of Reverend Rex Hartwellâ Winslow climbed the steps to the platform and took his seat in the carved pastor's chair. His notes, carefully transcribed on index cards, waited for him on the pulpit. After the special music by Birdie Wester, he would give these people a worship experience unlike any this side of the Mississippi.
In the closing notes of Bea's piano special, the ushersâ Floyd Lansdown, Charles Graham, Mike Klackenbush, and Buddy Franklin (whose long sleeves covered his tattoos, thank the Lord)âwalked stiffly down the aisle and placed the overflowing offering plates on the communion table. With that duty accomplished, the four broke ranks and sheepishly returned to their respective seats.
Birdie recognized her cue and stood, then came down the aisle and hopped up the steps to the platform. Winslow noticed that her hand trembled as she spread a sheet of notebook paper over his notesâthe words to her song, he supposed, so she must be suffering from a bad case of nerves.
Birdie cleared her throat, then nodded at Bea, who began the introduction. As was her custom, Bea played the last refrain of the chorus as an introduction, then the entire congregation took an anticipatory breath as Birdie began to sing “Let Others See Jesus in You.”
Winslow crossed one leg over the other and leaned back in his chair, mentally reviewing the progression of his sermon. He had a slight case of nerves, too, for though he had studied Habakkuk's prayer backward and forward, he had never combined the sermon, the sound, and the effects of the black box. All the elements fitted together perfectly on paper, but reality might prove to be a very different thing . . .
“Let others see Jesus in you,” Birdie sang, but an unusual quaver filled her voice. Winslow looked up, his concentration broken. Birdie sang often in church, and though she was no professional, she did have a pleasant voice. But her face had gone crimson in the last sixty seconds, and drops of perspiration lined her brow.
Winslow leaned forward, alarmed. Was she ill? Did she need a doctor?
Birdie finished the chorus and lowered her head to look at her notes. Knowing that he only had an instant, Winslow leaned forward and whispered, “Birdie? You all right?”
She barely had time for a brief nod before she launched into the second verse. She kept singing, but water was pouring from her forehead in earnest now. Winslow reached into his pocket, about to offer his handkerchief, but Birdie had her own solution in mind. Without missing a beat, she reached under her lyrics and pulled out Winslow's index cards, then began fanning herself in rhythm to the music.
“Let others see Jesus in you.” She vigorously beat the air. “Keep telling the story, be faithful and true, let others see Jesus in you.”
Reacting in sympathy, several women in the congregation began to fan themselves with their church bulletins. Though the temperature inside the building was cool and comfortable, the women pounded the air with whatever they could find, sending Sunday hairdos askew. Staring out over the crowd, Winslow caught puzzled expressions on the faces of several husbands, but the riddle was solved when Birdie finally finished her song.
“Whew,” she whispered, dropping Winslow's note cards into his lap. “Didn't think I'd make it through. These hot flashes are meltin' me.”
Winslow froze in his place, shocked at the combination of hot flash and Sunday solo. Something about the situation seemed somehow irreverent, but he didn't suppose it could be helped. After all, on many occasions he'd had to ask for a glass of water from the pulpit because of a scratchy throat or a fit of coughing.
Dismissing the thought, he gathered his cards and moved to the pulpit, then glanced down at the front pew. Micah was in position, poised to flip the switch on the black box at the appropriate moment.
Everything was ready.
Deliberately avoiding the area where Rex Hartwell sat with the Lansdowns, Winslow instructed the congregation to turn to the book of Habukkuk. “I am going to do something special today,” he said, moving to one side of the platform, his notes in his hand. “We are going to combine our God-given senses to visualize what Habukkuk was feeling when he listened to the Spirit of God. As you know, Habukkuk had complained to God about the destruction of his people, then he complained about the wickedness of the Chaldeans. Today we shall see Habukkuk lifting his voice in prayer, and learning that man is to live by faith.”
He waited until the rustling of pages ceased, then glanced down at his notes. He frowned as he stared at the writing. He'd written the appropriate scripture in ink, but apparently Birdie's sweaty hands had caused the ink to run, for the words were blurred and illegible.
Winslow rubbed the bridge of his nose and struggled to swallow his frustration. His previous sermons might well serve as examples of Murphy's Law gone amuck, but today would be different. He knew this material, and he could do it blindfolded if he had to.
Tossing the cards onto the pulpit, he picked up his Bible and nodded at Micah. An instant after Micah pressed the button on the CD player, the ominous strains of a symphony in a minor key issued from the stereo speakers.
Winslow opened to the book of Habakkuk and began to expound upon the Scripture: “Now,” he said, “through the prophet's prayer we will see that faith is the ability to be so sure of God, so certain, that nothing can shake us from our dependence upon him.”
As Micah leaned down and flipped the switch on the black box, a thin stream of gray fog poured from the mouth of the machine. Knowing it would take time for a full fog to form, Winslow continued. “Habukkuk knew his people would be judged for sin, but he was so confident in the coming Messiah that he trusted God implicitly. Though dark days were coming, Habukkuk knew the years ahead offered the sure promise of a glorious future for his people. In the mist of gloom and despair, a veritable fog of depression, Habukkuk was an optimist. His faith could not be shaken.”
The fog machine was really cranking now. Clouds of smoke billowed out of its mouth, and the eerie fog bathed the front of the church, obscuring the carpet and the base of the communion table. Though no one in the back could see the machine, they had begun to lean forward and crane their necksâgood.
Moving into the fog, Winslow stood on the second step, letting the cloud rise around him. A chorus of whispering began to move through the sanctuary, like the breaths of two dozen simultaneous astonishments.
Winslow lifted his Bible and struck what he hoped was a dramatic pose. “Let's read what the prophet had to say in the third chapter.”
He glanced down. Excellent. The smoke had reached his waist, and he'd have to lift his Bible higher to see the words. At this rate, the entire bottom of the church would be filled in a moment, and, combined with the eerie sounds of the symphony, everyone in the sanctuary would have a clear sense of the awe Habukkuk felt when he approached the throne of God.
Winslow drew a deep breath and began reading: “This prayer was sung by the prophet Habakkuk: I have heard all about you, Lord, and I am filled with awe by the amazing things you have done.”
He drew another breath, but his lungs rebelled against the oily scent of the smoke. Unable to stop himself, he coughed, then inhaled again, then coughed harder. He held up a hand, warning his congregation not to be alarmed, and turned away from the smoke machine, but his tortured lungs would not cooperate. With each smoky breath he drew, his lungs protested more vigorously.
“Pastor?” Micah rose from the front pew and waded through the fog. “Are you all right?”
“Just a”âcough,â“minute.”
He drew a deep breath and heard something rattle in his chest. His eyes filled with water, and the sanctuary seemed to swim before him.
“Winslow?” Judging from the sound of the voice, the wavering woman before him was Edith. “Honey, do you need help?” She turned. “Micah, shut that thing off.”
“No.” Winslow waved a hand. “Keep it on, I'll be allâ”
A wracking cough seized him, held him by the throat until he found himself gasping for breath. A thousand thoughts collided in his brainâthis was all a reaction to Birdie's hot flash, if he hadn't thought about glasses of water and coughing fits, none of this would be happening. But her situation had planted the thought, and the scent of the fog had made it blossom.
“Pastor, I insist that you shut the machine off.” This voice was firm and deepâand it belonged to Doctor Marc. “You can't preach if you can't breathe, man, and you seem to be in distress.”
“No.” Winslow managed only a strangled cry before the room went dark and he felt himself falling.
W
inslow awoke to the strident cry of gulls. He lifted his arms to bat the annoying birds away, but soft hands caught his even as a warm whisper reached his ear. “Calm down, Win, you're all right. Everything's fine now.”
Slowly, he opened his eyes to a blur of blue sky and white clouds. Edith's loving face hovered over him, as did the concerned countenance of Doctor Marc.
“You gave us a real fright,” the doctor said, running a hand through his wispy hair. “Apparently you're allergic to the fumes from the fog machine. Your throat was closing right up.”
“It was?” Winslow croaked. He felt grass beneath his hands and struggled to push himself upright.
“You're fine now,” Edith said, helping him to a sitting position. “Doctor Marc had medicine in his bag, and the shot he gave you worked right away.” She laughed softly. “Getting you out of all that smoke didn't hurt, either.”
Winslow blinked rapidly at the surreal scene around him. Georgie Graham was playing Frisbee with his father and Zuriel Smith, while Micah played the harmonica for Birdie and Bea. Vernie Bidderman was riding her motor scooter over the dunes that sheltered the cemetery, her skirts flying up past her bony knees, while Russell Higgs and Buddy Franklin loudly debated the pros and cons of trapping pistolsâlobsters with only one claw. Olympia de Cuvier and Annie Cuvier were strolling in the sun, their heads together in a shared moment. Under the shade of the elm tree, Floyd and Cleta Lansdown sat with Reverend Rex Hartwell in folding chairs someone must have brought up from the basement.
“How longâ” Winslow began.
“About twenty minutes,” Edith answered.
“Then whyâ” Winslow shook his head. “Why are they still here? Why didn't everybody go home?”
“I'm sure they want to know how you're feeling,” Edith answered, brushing dried grass from his shoulders.
Winslow glanced around a moment more, then lifted a brow. “Doesn't seem that anyone's really interested.”
Just then Cleta looked in their direction. “Thank the Lord, he's up,” she shouted, springing out of her chair like a jack-in-the-box. “Floyd, go downstairs and bring up the others. Tell 'em to bring a chair; they'll need to sit.”
Winslow's thoughts spun in bewilderment. “Whatâ”
Cleta didn't give him time to finish. “We're going to have a church meeting, Pastor,” she said, waving to Vernie on the dunes. “Now that you're fine, there's no reason we can't keep to our schedule.”
Winslow sat up straighter and brushed his sleeves, struggling to control his swirling emotions. While he lay at death's door, they partied and played. Now that he was awake and well they were still determined to cut his throat.
Very well.
“Edith,” he commanded, extending his arm, “help me up. I'm not going to take this sitting down.”
Concern and confusion mingled in her eyes as she helped him stand, then Winslow brushed the remainder of the grass from his suit.
Doctor Marc bent to pick up the fabric bundle that had pillowed Winslow's head. “Here,” he said, shaking the wrinkles out of an expensive-looking suit coat. “I expect you'll be wanting to return this.”
“Um,” Winslow said, taking the coat, “of course. Whose is it?”
Wordlessly, Doctor Marc pointed toward Reverend Rex Hartwell, who was advancing with Cleta Lansdown.
He'd been resting on his rival's coat? The strength suddenly went out of Winslow's arm. His hand dropped, dragging the coat in the grass, but Edith caught it, then carefully draped it over her arm as Cleta approached with the other minister.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Cleta called, her voice drawing the others like a dinner bell. “This wasn't exactly how we planned to do this, but there's no time like the present. And so, Pastor,” she lowered her gaze and looked Winslow directly in the eye, “we would like to introduce you to Reverend Rex Hartwell, from the Maine Council of Independent Churches.”
Winslow felt his mouth go dry as the fine-looking minister in shirtsleeves stepped out and offered his hand. “I'm pleased to meet you,” Hartwell said, his voice like soothing music. “I've heard many good things about you.”
“Likewise,” Winslow murmured. By the sheer force of will, he thrust out his arm and shook Hartwell's hand.
“And now,” Cleta said, beaming, “the Reverend Hartwell has news for you.”
Grasping for the few remaining shreds of his dignity and courage, Winslow straightened and reached for Edith's hand.
“Reverend Wickam,” Hartwell said, his face shimmering like gold in the autumn sunlight, “we have received your application for a financial grant. The committee approved it, pending my investigation, of course, and so today I am happy to tell you that your church will be receiving a check for $25,000. Enough, I am told, to put a new roof on your building and make a few sorely-needed improvements to the parsonage.”