Monday, January 23, 2006
Grace Triumphant 006
March 5, 2005
At the Breakfast club the next morning, the windows at Shoney's were foggy from the hot food inside and the crowded tables. But we had our weekly table reserved. I was still on Christmas break from night school, so I felt energetic and cheerful.
Steve, his wife Julie, the red haired and fair skinned John, the dark haired and dark skinned Kazzazz, middle-aged Alf and Cindy Rogers, the small and dapper Beauchamp, and I crowded around our dishes from the breakfast bar.
"Julie and I have something to tell you," Steve said as we passed the salt and pepper, sugar, and hot peppers back and forth.
"Speak up or get drowned out," Alf said with a smile.
"You better listen," Kazzazz said gently. He and Steve were the best of friends. We all looked at Steve.
"There's a small church up in Camden New Jersey---" Steve began.
"Camden!" Cindy exclaimed in horror. "Camden New Jersey? That's a drug haven!"
"Well not all of it, but yes they have their problems," Steve said. Cindy already knew what he was going to say. I should have guessed, but it never crossed my mind.
"I signed on here to learn the ropes," Steve said. "Julie's been patient, but we always thought we were called to the Northeast. It's a hard, cold place that needs the love of God."
"You're going there?" I asked. I was stunned.
Steve glanced at his wife. Julie, by the way, was what people called "a sturdy wife." She always encouraged Steve, always spoke highly of him, always kept their tiny mobile home spotless, always cooked the Polish food that he had grown up eating, always worked in concert with him. She was plain and tall, with huge brown eyes as her one beauty. Her nose, like Steve's had an extra curve in it from being broken when she went face first off a bicycle as a little girl. She and Steve had very little use for beauty. They preferred fun. They had fun together, and where ever they went, fun followed. They played games with their children: hide and seek in that tiny mobile home, or tag outside, or keep-away when Julie needed the salt for cooking and Steve would pass it off to four year old Jacob who would pass it off to two year old Juliette and all of them laugh as Julie fussed at them.
"Steve, Camden is an incredibly impoverished and crime-ridden place," Cindy said. "Have you gone up there to look it over?"
He nodded. "I preached there two Sunday nights ago, Cindy, and I stayed and preached the next Wednesday. It's a bad place with some very godly people who aren't willing to give up on their neighbors. Julie and I---" And he took her hand. "Think we should go."
Cindy said nothing after that. But she had a stricken look in her eyes. I got the impressions that Steve and Julie were going to the gates of Hell to pastor a church.
"We love the people up there already," Julie said quietly. "They need a permanent pastor."
"They need somebody who won't run out on them," Steve said. "Julie can make a home out of nothing. We can live with the poverty."
Alf took his wife's hand, the way a gentle husband quiets his wife's objections. "All right, Steve, Julie. You've always been careful and circumspect. We'll pray for you to prosper up there. When do you leave?"
"A month," Steve said. "Four weeks exactly."
"We'll miss you," John said.
"We may decide to go with you," Kazzazz added. He laughed when he said it, but I knew he meant it. Steve and Julie were good friends with Kazzazz and his wife.
Beauchamp never sat right next to me at the Saturday morning breakfasts. We always downplayed our friendship, even well after everybody knew we were friends. From across the table, he nodded at me, a signal that we should speak in private afterward.
For the rest of the breakfast, everybody talked about Camden and what Steve and Julie had seen of it. The tiny church up there had already provided living quarters for them in what Steve called a "mixed" neighborhood. At first we all through the meant a racially mixed neighborhood. But he really meant a neighborhood on the border of the drug territories. Some houses were used by dealers and some were occupied by decent, blue collar families. All kinds of deals had been offered to Steve to get a pastor and his family onto the block, as it was seen by the locals as a means of reclaiming the neighborhood. "All kinds of opportunities," Steve said as we stood to go back to the breakfast bar.
"All kinds of trouble, too," Kazzazz said. "But you were born for trouble, Steve."
John had needed a ride from me because his car was in the shop over the weekend. But I asked Kazzazz to give him a lift home. John shot me a look of disappointment when I told him Kazzazz would drop him off. So, I thought, John really had been angling for time with me. Hillary would be so pleased. But I was amazed. I really thought John was out of my league for anything beyond two friends going out together to see The Messiah or a play.
In my twenties, after several months diligent work in a gym, I was slim, strong, and a size seven. My job at Simpsons gave me an inside track on sales and bargains for terrific clothes that were well made and attractive. But I had only average looks: brown eyes and blondish hair that John had once called the color of clover honey, but that I also called "dirty blonde". Not golden enough to be really blonde, but light enough brown to keep trying to pass itself off as blonde. I was only average, and John was outright handsome.
Beauchamp was waiting for me after I said goodbye to John and Kazzazz. "Shall we go shopping as you like to do?" he asked.
"Yes, is everything all right?" I asked him.
"Change is in the wind, dear Grace. But we shall find bargains first."
I always had a list of things I needed. Only a few months before I'd moved into a huge old house in town. It had been divided into neat little apartments, still in view of the mountains. But the paper thin walls allowed almost all noise to pass through, and my neighbor appeared to be enamored of Jesus Christ Superstar, which I loathed. He played it at full volume, over and over again. So I was always looking for music to play in my headphones to drown out the noise through the walls.
We went to the grocery store and I picked out all my groceries. And then we visited the music store so I could look over the selections of second hand CDs. After that, we took a quick trip to the Dollar Store. Beauchamp hated the Dollar store. He said it smelled, but I always found good bargains there, especially on housewares.
But that day when I found useful six-piece sets of glasses, he insisted that I not buy them. He practically forbad me from one purchase after another, though it was January and sales were great. And my new place needed housewares.
"You shall have as many glasses, dishes, and plates as you like," he promised me. "And all better than these. Come, let us find that coffee store you like so well. What is it, Barry's?"
"Barnie's," I told him. This was before Starbucks, and Barnie's with their light, aromatic blends of coffee, had taken the southeast by storm. Everybody who was anybody hung out at the local Barnie's sooner or later in the week.
"You really do have something to tell me," I said as we walked out to his car in the chilly Saturday morning.
"Yes, but nothing that cannot wait until you have coffee in your hand, dear Grace," he said.
|
At the Breakfast club the next morning, the windows at Shoney's were foggy from the hot food inside and the crowded tables. But we had our weekly table reserved. I was still on Christmas break from night school, so I felt energetic and cheerful.
Steve, his wife Julie, the red haired and fair skinned John, the dark haired and dark skinned Kazzazz, middle-aged Alf and Cindy Rogers, the small and dapper Beauchamp, and I crowded around our dishes from the breakfast bar.
"Julie and I have something to tell you," Steve said as we passed the salt and pepper, sugar, and hot peppers back and forth.
"Speak up or get drowned out," Alf said with a smile.
"You better listen," Kazzazz said gently. He and Steve were the best of friends. We all looked at Steve.
"There's a small church up in Camden New Jersey---" Steve began.
"Camden!" Cindy exclaimed in horror. "Camden New Jersey? That's a drug haven!"
"Well not all of it, but yes they have their problems," Steve said. Cindy already knew what he was going to say. I should have guessed, but it never crossed my mind.
"I signed on here to learn the ropes," Steve said. "Julie's been patient, but we always thought we were called to the Northeast. It's a hard, cold place that needs the love of God."
"You're going there?" I asked. I was stunned.
Steve glanced at his wife. Julie, by the way, was what people called "a sturdy wife." She always encouraged Steve, always spoke highly of him, always kept their tiny mobile home spotless, always cooked the Polish food that he had grown up eating, always worked in concert with him. She was plain and tall, with huge brown eyes as her one beauty. Her nose, like Steve's had an extra curve in it from being broken when she went face first off a bicycle as a little girl. She and Steve had very little use for beauty. They preferred fun. They had fun together, and where ever they went, fun followed. They played games with their children: hide and seek in that tiny mobile home, or tag outside, or keep-away when Julie needed the salt for cooking and Steve would pass it off to four year old Jacob who would pass it off to two year old Juliette and all of them laugh as Julie fussed at them.
"Steve, Camden is an incredibly impoverished and crime-ridden place," Cindy said. "Have you gone up there to look it over?"
He nodded. "I preached there two Sunday nights ago, Cindy, and I stayed and preached the next Wednesday. It's a bad place with some very godly people who aren't willing to give up on their neighbors. Julie and I---" And he took her hand. "Think we should go."
Cindy said nothing after that. But she had a stricken look in her eyes. I got the impressions that Steve and Julie were going to the gates of Hell to pastor a church.
"We love the people up there already," Julie said quietly. "They need a permanent pastor."
"They need somebody who won't run out on them," Steve said. "Julie can make a home out of nothing. We can live with the poverty."
Alf took his wife's hand, the way a gentle husband quiets his wife's objections. "All right, Steve, Julie. You've always been careful and circumspect. We'll pray for you to prosper up there. When do you leave?"
"A month," Steve said. "Four weeks exactly."
"We'll miss you," John said.
"We may decide to go with you," Kazzazz added. He laughed when he said it, but I knew he meant it. Steve and Julie were good friends with Kazzazz and his wife.
Beauchamp never sat right next to me at the Saturday morning breakfasts. We always downplayed our friendship, even well after everybody knew we were friends. From across the table, he nodded at me, a signal that we should speak in private afterward.
For the rest of the breakfast, everybody talked about Camden and what Steve and Julie had seen of it. The tiny church up there had already provided living quarters for them in what Steve called a "mixed" neighborhood. At first we all through the meant a racially mixed neighborhood. But he really meant a neighborhood on the border of the drug territories. Some houses were used by dealers and some were occupied by decent, blue collar families. All kinds of deals had been offered to Steve to get a pastor and his family onto the block, as it was seen by the locals as a means of reclaiming the neighborhood. "All kinds of opportunities," Steve said as we stood to go back to the breakfast bar.
"All kinds of trouble, too," Kazzazz said. "But you were born for trouble, Steve."
John had needed a ride from me because his car was in the shop over the weekend. But I asked Kazzazz to give him a lift home. John shot me a look of disappointment when I told him Kazzazz would drop him off. So, I thought, John really had been angling for time with me. Hillary would be so pleased. But I was amazed. I really thought John was out of my league for anything beyond two friends going out together to see The Messiah or a play.
In my twenties, after several months diligent work in a gym, I was slim, strong, and a size seven. My job at Simpsons gave me an inside track on sales and bargains for terrific clothes that were well made and attractive. But I had only average looks: brown eyes and blondish hair that John had once called the color of clover honey, but that I also called "dirty blonde". Not golden enough to be really blonde, but light enough brown to keep trying to pass itself off as blonde. I was only average, and John was outright handsome.
Beauchamp was waiting for me after I said goodbye to John and Kazzazz. "Shall we go shopping as you like to do?" he asked.
"Yes, is everything all right?" I asked him.
"Change is in the wind, dear Grace. But we shall find bargains first."
I always had a list of things I needed. Only a few months before I'd moved into a huge old house in town. It had been divided into neat little apartments, still in view of the mountains. But the paper thin walls allowed almost all noise to pass through, and my neighbor appeared to be enamored of Jesus Christ Superstar, which I loathed. He played it at full volume, over and over again. So I was always looking for music to play in my headphones to drown out the noise through the walls.
We went to the grocery store and I picked out all my groceries. And then we visited the music store so I could look over the selections of second hand CDs. After that, we took a quick trip to the Dollar Store. Beauchamp hated the Dollar store. He said it smelled, but I always found good bargains there, especially on housewares.
But that day when I found useful six-piece sets of glasses, he insisted that I not buy them. He practically forbad me from one purchase after another, though it was January and sales were great. And my new place needed housewares.
"You shall have as many glasses, dishes, and plates as you like," he promised me. "And all better than these. Come, let us find that coffee store you like so well. What is it, Barry's?"
"Barnie's," I told him. This was before Starbucks, and Barnie's with their light, aromatic blends of coffee, had taken the southeast by storm. Everybody who was anybody hung out at the local Barnie's sooner or later in the week.
"You really do have something to tell me," I said as we walked out to his car in the chilly Saturday morning.
"Yes, but nothing that cannot wait until you have coffee in your hand, dear Grace," he said.
