Boomtown (9 page)

The applause faded, but I couldn't remember what I was supposed to do. Jonny saved me by waving and saying, “C'mon, Dad. Preach for us.”

That's all I needed. I thanked everyone for their kindness and hospitality, especially those who had helped move us in. I nodded to Gramma Edna, Ingrid, Matthieu and Pauline La Pierre, Ed Gamelli, and all the other people we'd met that morning. All of them sat quietly, eagerly anticipating the message. I have to admit that in spite of the distinct possibility that I would die in some tragic accident, I could still taste the flavor of excitement that I only felt when standing in the pulpit. There wasn't anything I enjoyed more than preaching to an eager audience.

I commented briefly on the hopes and aspirations I had for the congregation over the next few years (the more the better), and then I opened to the passage for that morning. All over town, similar gatherings were taking place. In Boomtown, Sunday worship was a mainstay and the pews were always filled. There were three congregations from which to choose. Those of Scandinavian descent tended to gravitate toward First Presbyterian. Germans were most comfortable at St. Bernard's Lutheran. That left Boomtown Church for the denominationally unaffiliated.

I soon learned that in Boomtown one's religious affiliation never interfered with the more important duty of working closely with fellow citizens. Every person regarded himself as an essential part of Boomtown community life. There were no outsiders in Boomtown.

Time flew by as I preached. It seemed like I'd only started when just as quickly I'd reached the conclusion of my message—
and that's when it happened.
All of a sudden, an older woman who was sitting near the back jumped up from her seat. She'd shuffled down the aisle using a walker to steady herself. Her back was bent and her legs were thin and shaky, but now they seemed to be on fire. She launched from her seat like one of Han-wu's rockets.

“Ahhhhhh!” she squealed, leaping over the pew.

“Ahhhhhhhhh!”

All eyes swung around to see what was happening. Everyone there, of course, knew Mrs. Beedle, a woman who for the last ten years had been unable to stand on her own without help. Now for some odd reason she was leaping and jumping and praising God, at least, that's the way it appeared.

“Ooooh,” she squirmed. “Eeeee!” she squeaked.

“Woooohoo!” she squawked.

Corine Beedle was a woman who had visited every doc-tor in town (there was only one) and every other doctor in the county (there were only three). They all told her exactly the same thing. She was perfectly fine. Nothing was wrong with her at all. It was completely in her imagination. But she knew better.

“They're all
quacks
!” she'd insist. “Charlatans, counterfeits, con men, cheats, swindlers, phonies, humbugs, flimflam artists!”

No matter what they told her, she was absolutely convinced that she suffered from an unidentified disorder. She had contracted some sort of exotic tropical disease. She was dying from a mysterious ailment. Her joints ached, her muscles hurt, her back was out, her feet were swollen, her eyes were blurry—even her hair was sore.

“No, no, no!” she persisted. “Something is
wrong
with me! Something is terribly, dreadfully, incurably wrong!”

But now, for some inexplicable reason, she was standing. She wasn't just standing; she was wiggling around. She wasn't just wiggling around; she was turning, gyrating, hop-ping, jerking, jumping, leaping, twisting, and twitching. She spun to the left. She spun to the right. She grabbed her legs and back and sides. She hooted and howled and yelped and yammered.

“It's a miracle!” someone shouted. “Mrs. Beedle has been cured!”

Everyone started talking and pointing all at once, but Mrs. Beedle was too busy to notice. She ran up and down the aisle squeaking and squawking and squirming. She jumped up and down like popcorn on a hot plate. She spun like a windmill in a tornado. She screamed like a boiling teapot on a hot stove.

Manfred Heinzmann stared. Vera sang. The Widow Feeny blocked the door. Matthieu and Pauline LaPierre chased their laughing children. Everyone else just stood there wondering what it all meant until someone finally shouted, “I know what it is! I know what's happened!
She's got
the Spirit!
Old Mrs. Beedle has
finally
got the Spirit!”

Everyone gasped and fell silent, gaping in awe at the miracle happening in their very midst. Then they turned and looked at me, their new minister, the instrument of the Almighty, the one who had drawn Mrs. Beedle up out of the pit of disease and turned her into a shooting star. Somehow
I
had done it; I was responsible; it was the only possible explanation.

In the silence that followed, other than Mrs. Beedle swinging from the chandelier, I heard the distinct sound of Sarah, up in the balcony, laughing her silly head off.
Oh no
, I thought.
Tell me it isn't true! Tell me that Sarah didn't have anything to do with this!

“Sarah!” I shouted. “This
isn't
funny! This is
serious
!”

Janice agreed with me for once. “Sarah, honey, Mrs. Beedle has got the
Spirit
. That's not something to laugh about.”

Sarah leaned over the railing and tried to catch her breath. In between giggles, she finally managed to say, “Mrs. Beedle hasn't got the
Spirit!
She's got
Whiskers
!”

Whiskers?
What? Mrs. Beedle had a dark shadow over her lip. I guess it sort of looked like a mustache; but you could hardly call it “whiskers.” A waxing would help, a little concealer perhaps, maybe a light shave. That didn't explain why she was twitching so much.

Sarah banged on the railing and laughed and laughed. “Not whiskers on her
face
! Whiskers up her
dress
! Katrina's gerbil! He got away, and Mrs. Beedle found him!”

Just then, Mrs. Beedle jumped down from the chandelier. When she landed, Whiskers the gerbil finally popped loose. He must have climbed down the stairs and made his way under the pews until he found a warm, dark spot where he could hide. Unfortunately, it happened to be under the folds of Mrs. Beedle's skirt.

Now that she was free from the furry little rodent, Corine Beedle made a hasty exit. She grabbed her purse and straight-armed her way past the Widow Feeny at the door. She left in such a hurry that she even forgot her walker.

“Wait!” I called after her. “We're so sorry! Don't leave!”

But she was gone, and it felt like she took the Spirit with her. At least, that's what I thought. All I could think was that in the seventy-five years that Boomtown Church had been going, with twenty-four ministers who had been crushed and burned and drowned and blown up, every last one of them died with their boots on. To be buried in an avalanche—
that's
something I could accept! To be carried off by a pack of ravenous wolves—okay, fair enough. To be trampled by a herd of angry goats, stung by killer bees, drowned in my own bath-tub, or choke on a peanut!
Fine!
I could deal with any of that! But to have my ministry come to a bitter end after only one day because of a
gerbil
? It was humiliating!

But this was Boomtown, I kept forgetting. Never in my wildest dreams could I have predicted the reaction of the members. I was suddenly surrounded by people who pounded me on the back, slapped me on the shoulders, and insisted on shaking my hand.

“Good job, preacher!”

“Excellent!
”

“Outstanding!”

“Inspirational!
”

“How you gonna top it next week?”

In the middle of it all was Sarah, like a shining star, carrying Whiskers (who seemed to be none the worse for wear). She was the perfect center of attention, being treated like the queen of the Nile. All the other little girls wanted to stand next to her. Most of them wanted to
be
her.

“Wow!” they said. “You burned down a building
and
you healed an old lady. What else can you do?”

I don't think I wanted to find out. For my part, I stood at the door of the church sheepishly shaking everyone's hand as they exited. Without exception, they each said it was the best church service they'd ever attended. I thought it was the worst disaster I'd ever seen—worse even than the whole burning-down-the-research-lab disaster from two days before. But the members of Boomtown Church thought it was the greatest thing since the day they put fire into fire-crackers.
What had I gotten myself into?

When the sanctuary was nearly empty, a fellow stopped at the door to make his acquaintance. The man's name was Terence Krebbs. He told me it was the very first time his family had visited the church.

“We haven't been to church in more than fifteen years. But when we heard that the new preacher in town had blown up the fireworks factory, we wanted to come by and check things out. I just want to say that we have never had so much fun in church in our entire lives! We're coming back next Sunday—and we're gonna bring some friends. We can't wait to see what happens next.”

They went out the double doors, chatting happily as they went. Janice stood next to me, patting my hand. Ruth and Jonny grinned from ear to ear. And then there was Sarah, holding Whiskers up to her face, kissing his head and whispering in his tiny ear.

“You see that, Dad? It's just like you always say.”

“What do I always say?”

“‘The Lord works in mysterious ways.' I hear you say it all the time.”

I looked down at my younger daughter and tried to be upset with her, but I couldn't seem to manage it. I laughed and reached out my hand and ruffled her hair.

“There's no mystery here. You're my lucky penny, that's what you are. You somehow manage to land heads-up every time.”

“Yep!” she agreed, beaming with pride. “I'll
never
be Sorry about that!”

CHAPTER 5

The Stickville Slugs

T
wo weeks passed following that fateful first Sunday, as we settled into our new home and ministry. The leaves began to change as September arrived, signaling the single most important event in our little corner of the world—the start of football season.

In Boomtown, high school football was the first and foremost obsession (other than fireworks). Everyone—and I mean
everyone
, including the mayor's three-legged dog—was fanatically, fantastically, firmly, and forever committed to the Stickville Slugs. As far as anyone was concerned, they were the only game in town. Whenever the team played an away game, a huge caravan of fans would faithfully follow them wherever they went. You
knew
when it was game night. Boomtown turned into a ghost town.

Everywhere you looked there were signs:
Go Slugs! Slime
Time! Stick with the Slugs!
My personal favorite:
We May Be Slow,
but That's because We're Slugs!
Local chapters of the Hug-a-Slug Booster Clubs held regular meetings and printed flyers with the team schedule so no one would miss a game. The local radio station, KSLG, interviewed the coach of Stickville High School. He promised another exciting season for all the faithful fans.