What Lies Within (15 page)

“Surely God doesn’t expect us to run what’s left of this church into the ground.” Sheamus shook his head. “How is that good stewardship?”

Fredrik wove his fingers together.
Sheamus is right, Yeshua. How can we continue to throw good money after bad?

Hilda looked down in her lap, where her ancient Sheltie lay curled. There was more Sheltie than there was lap, but Hilda didn’t care. Doggy Dog was her family, and the animal went wherever she did. Even church.

She stroked the dog’s fur, and when she spoke her gentle tone ushered calm into the room. “None of us wants to run the church into the ground. That’s what we’re trying to avoid.”

Don fingered the edges of the paper he was doodling on, then directed a question to his brother, Von. “Where are we with our finances?”

Von opened the folder on the table in front of him. “As of this week, we’re down to about a fourth of what we started with.”

“That’s not enough.”

“Maybe not if we were in this on our own.” Steve met the troubled gazes around the table. “I know you understand business, Sheamus. The success of the company you founded shows that. But this isn’t about just business.”

Alden nodded. Years working in the forests as a ranger had given him a quiet astuteness. “That’s true enough. If it was, we’d have pulled out long ago.” He gave another slow nod. “No, obedience. That’s what this is about.”

Such a team You put together here, Yeshua. Such a blending of personalities and temperaments
. Only God could have done this—knit their hearts and spirits into a tapestry of faith. Made them more than members of the church Fredrik had pastored for over forty years. God made them friends.

No, more than that.
You made us family
.

“Fredrik, what do you say?”

He lifted his eyes to those sitting around the table, studying the faces almost more familiar to him than his own. These people he respected and loved.

Which was why it tore him apart to hear them do little lately but debate.

This time the breath he drew in made him weary. Old friends at odds. It shouldn’t be. “What do I say about what, Wayne?”

The man’s back straightened a fraction more—something Fredrik hadn’t thought possible. “Weren’t you listening?”

“Listening?” He let his gaze travel to the seven faces watching him. The church elders. The heart and soul of what, until six months ago, was the Blessed Hope Fellowship Church. Seven elders and one deaconess, all as timeworn and tested as he. Well, almost. He did have most of them beat in the age category, but not by much.

“Listening to what, Wayne? More arguing? More debates?” He slid his hands beneath the table, resting them in his lap. “I should listen to this, instead of what God told us?” He shook his head. “No. I wasn’t listening. But I was asking.”

“Asking?” Wayne leaned his elbows on the table. “Asking what?”

“If we believe this call we’ve been given, to make our church over into a community youth center, is from God.”

Slow nods answered Fredrik. Hilda’s blue eyes encouraged him to go on.

“And do we trust the Scripture we’ve held to since this church opened its doors? The psalm we chose for our mission statement?” He indicated the framed psalm on the wall.

“Absolutely.” There was no doubt in Wayne’s tone, nor in the echoes of agreement from the others.

Fredrik folded his hands on the table. “Then I ask you this: does this fire mean God has released us from that call?”

Not one of them hesitated. They shook their heads, and Steve voiced their reply. “No, it doesn’t.”

Fredrik planted his hands on the table and pushed himself to his feet. “Then, old friends, we have our orders. We must move forward.”

Grumbles sounded on every side, and Sheamus frowned. “I just don’t see how we can possibly do that.”

The sharp sound of metal scraping wood jerked their attention to the right. Willard had pushed back his chair and, hands resting on the table for support, pushed himself to his feet. At eighty-seven, he was the eldest elder, both in age and in wisdom. His large hands reflected his heart, equal parts strength and tenderness. He’d endured a season of suffering—thanks, as he often said, to his own choices as a young man—and come out, by God’s grace, cleansed. Grounded. Joyful. This was a true man of God. Though the newest elder to the church—he’d been attending since he moved to Portland after retiring ten years ago—it seemed he’d been a part of them forever.

That was most likely because Willard’s sons, Don and Von, had been. Just two years apart, they’d started coming to the church as young men. Fredrik had married them to their sweethearts, baptized, and married their children, grandchildren, and even a few great-grandchildren. And through it all, Willard was there. Visiting at first, and then as much a part of their church family as anyone who’d ever attended.

And Fredrik’s most trusted friend.

He watched now as Willard made his way to the whiteboard on the wall. Lifting a marker, he pulled the cap free, the snap sounding like a thunderclap in the suddenly silent room. His movements slow but steady, Willard wrote
on the whiteboard. The silence stretched. One minute. Three. Five. When he was finished, he put the cap back on the marker, walked back to his chair, and sat down.

Such a simple answer, Yeshua
. Fredrik raised a hand, letting his finger touch the board beneath Willard’s paraphrase of verses they all knew so well.
Why didn’t we see it sooner?

For a moment, no one spoke. Then Wayne let out a low sigh. “Point taken. Let’s take the night to pray. To seek God’s guidance as to our next step. Then talk again tomorrow and form a plan.”

Murmurs of agreement sounded, and the group rose and left the room. Fredrik waited until he was the only one left, then went to stand before a frame hanging on the wall. Like similar frames in every room of the church, it held selections from Psalm 89—words that had undergirded their lives as a congregation:

Fredrik let the words seep through his soul, strengthening him anew. He patted the framed Scripture, then walked toward the door, a wry smile teasing his mouth. He opened the door, turning back for just a moment to the whiteboard and what Willard had written there. Words he’d memorized long ago, but it wasn’t until now that they’d hit home with an impact that almost took his breath away. Words that offered life and promise. And one other thing.

Consequences.

Fredrik smiled. Ah, but wasn’t that always the way of Scripture?

As though confirming the thought, the words from the whiteboard drifted through his mind:
“If you need wisdom … ask God, and he will gladly tell you. But be sure you expect an answer, for a doubtful mind is as unsettled as an ocean wave driven and tossed by the wind. Doubters waver back and forth in everything they do. Such people should not expect anything from the Lord.”

Fredrik walked from the building out into the sunshine.
If you need wisdom … ask
.

This he could do. This he would do.

And God, as sure as the sun would rise on the morrow, would answer.

THIRTEEN   

T
hese old fools were going to answer for their stubborn stupidity.

King K leaned against the side of the building, thumb flicking across the point of his butterfly knife, pondering what he’d just overheard. Good thing they were too stupid to close the windows during their meeting. Made it easier to listen in, find out what was happening.

He’d expected them to bail. Walk away. They had to know the fire was set. Had to know it was a warning. Get out before things got worse. Leave now. No harm, no foul.

But no. These stupid white fogies were going to pray. Think about it and pray.

King snapped his wrist, flipping the knife until it folded up, and slid it into the side pocket of his pants. So. They were going to pray. Maybe stick it out.

Fine. Just meant he had some planning to do.

He turned, then froze. A form slipped out of the shadows. His hand slid toward the knife he’d just pocketed.

“It was you, wasn’t it?”

Fingers tensed, then relaxed as he recognized the voice. “What are you doing here?”

“Watching out.”

King’s lip curled. “For what?”

“For you.”

The boldness of the words, the pointed intensity, drew his fingers into a fist.

“You did it, didn’t you? You set the fire.”

King didn’t dignify the question with a response. Just stood, arms crossed, features bored.

“You proud of yourself? Settin’ fire to a
church?
”

That was enough. More than enough. “What you doin’ here, L’il Man?”

“More to the point, what are
you
doing here?”

Anyone else dared to question him, King K would put the fool down. Instead, he spread his hands out, palms up. “Just walkin’ my turf. Makin’ sure everything’s cool.”

Tarik’s lips thinned, but King didn’t take the bait. Let the boy get upset. He wasn’t backing down. He let his posture say as much—for all the good it would do. This boy didn’t scare.

He would have made a great 22.

King K shook the thought from his head. No. Not this one. The life wasn’t for him. Sure, he’d been mad when L’il Man walked out on them. Or so he’d made it appear. Couldn’t let his crew know how relieved he was Tarik was gettin’ out.

Tarik turned to look at the burned section of the church. King studied the younger boy’s profile. Kid got more handsome with each year. Stood taller too. He might be young, but it was clear to any who looked at him that Tarik was a man.

“You’ve gone too far, man.”

King narrowed his eyes. “No such thing. I go as far as I like in my own crib.”

Tarik spun to face him. “This isn’t your crib! It’s God’s. Don’t you see that? You’re not going against me or these people. You’re going against God. And that’s a stupid play, even for you.”

Nobody called him stupid. Nobody. King K took a step forward. Let his words hiss though clenched teeth. “You’re as much a fool as those old men,
Tarik
.“ He spat the name.

The boy didn’t flinch. Just squared off. “I can only pray I’m one-tenth as good as those men in there. Those men you tried to kill.”

King K let his mouth curve at the accusation. “I don’t
try
to kill nobody.” Anger flowed, turning to venom that dripped from his words. “I
kill
. Period. I want someone dusted, they gone. You got that?”

Silence. No sign of fear. Not even a flicker in those dark eyes. Had to admire the kid’s guts. King’s sneer almost slipped. Almost.

“I got it.”

Tarik’s voice, low and firm, sounded so old. And cold. King K could remember a better time … that voice young, laughing …

He turned and walked away. No point thinking about the past. Old business. Over and done with. All that mattered was here and now. And taking care of today’s business.

No matter how hard—or messy—it got.

FOURTEEN