No Weapon Formed (Boaz Brown) (26 page)

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If you enjoyed
No Weapon Formed
,

You’ll love this excerpt from the novel
Stepping
Down
by Michelle Stimpson

Chapter
1

Pastor
Mark Wayne Carter, III cast his drooping eyes on the clock ticking away on the
wall directly across from his desk. Last year his wife, Sharla, had lowered the
clock so that it stared at him while he was sitting in his gold-studded leather
executive chair.

“I
know you’re busy doing the Lord’s work, but it
would
be nice to see you
home before the sun goes down sometimes,” she had nagged as she pounded a nail
into the wall. She positioned the clock in its new location, then put both
hands on her hips. “If you can see the clock, you might actually keep track of
how much time you’re spending here in your office.”

Mark
didn’t like to fight with her about his devotion to New Vision Church. The church
was his life’s purpose, the reason he’d walked away from his short, but
well-paying career as an insurance salesman. This church had given him a sense
of accomplishment he’d never experienced in all his months as top-producer at
StateWay Insurance.

More
than anything, Mark hoped that New Vision Church would be the reason Jesus
said, “Well done, my good and faithful servant,” to him one day.

Late
Saturday nights came with the territory, which was one reason he hired a very
young man as his assistant and semi-mentee. At thirty-eight years old, Mark was
no old goat, but he wasn’t bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, either. He needed an
assistant to knock on the door every hour or so and make sure Mark hadn’t
fallen asleep at the computer.

A
recent graduate
of Southern Bible School, Jonathan
Lawrence had come with stellar references and an excellent transcript. Mark
wasn’t too crazy about seminary kids. Jonathan seemed eager, though, and he had
been faithful to his previous mentor. Mark didn’t mind showing a young minister
the ropes, so long as he learned quickly and knew how to keep his mouth shut.
Jonathan would do, unless he proved otherwise.

11:45
. Mark did the math in his head. It would
take him at least another half-hour to finish the outline. An hour to fill it
out with scriptures and examples. Ten minutes to get home. In bed by 1:45, to
be up again by six and back at the church for first service at 8:00.

If
only the Jenkins’ house dedication hadn’t taken so long and the visit to Mother
Morris in the hospital had gone as planned, he wouldn’t be in this predicament.
Lord, I’ll do better
, Mark prayed silently as he logged into SermonDepot.com
to browse for a ready-made message. Briefly, he thought about the problems he’d
encountered this week at the church.

He
couldn’t wrap his mind around anything in particular. In a church of almost 1500
in attendance weekly, the issues varied. Blessings, sin, healing, financial
prosperity. Any of those topics would do.

Mark
refined his search by checking the “60-minute” and “adult audience” boxes to
decrease the number of results.  “Lord, show me which one,” he offered
briefly, though he wondered if God would actually advise him about this
shortcut. His eyes landed on a generic title: Seven Steps to Success, taken
from the parable of the sower in Matthew 13.

Mark
clicked on his “Used Sermons” folder to make sure he hadn’t already preached
this message. Six years ago, when he and Sharla founded New Vision, he wouldn’t
have dreamed of downloading a sermon from the internet. As he realized the
growing number of lectures he’d copied from the web, it was hard to imagine how
he’d gotten to that point.

He
took a cleansing breath and reminded himself that he wasn’t alone. There were,
according to the site’s banner, thousands of paying subscribers—other
pastors and preachers, presumably—who utilized the sermons.
God’s word
is consistent and true. It doesn’t change. No need to reinvent the wheel every
Sunday
, Mark rationalized as he checked the “use” box and printed the
accompanying four-page document.

His
laser printer hummed softly as a display of lights signaled the connection
between laptop and printer.

A
soft rapping at the door gave Mark a second wind. He hoisted his smile into
place and sat up straight in his chair. “Enter.”

Jonathan
poked his head in the office. “Pastor, you okay in here?”

“Yes,”
Mark said. “Leave if you need to.”

Jonathan
shook his head, “Oh no, sir. I’m in no hurry. I was thinking…you fell asleep in
here last Saturday night, so…”

Mark
could only laugh at himself. “Thank you, Jonathan. I’m good. I hit the gym this
week. Got more energy.” Mark swiveled his chair around and grabbed the papers
from the printer. “About to wrap it up.”

“Okay.”
Jonathan ducked out of the room.

Aside
from sore muscles, the workout had given Mark a little more energy. Maybe, if
he kept the exercise going and cut back on the fast food, he might actually
feel like a thirty-eight-year-old is supposed to feel. At six foot two and two
hundred-twenty pounds, he’d been able to maintain a healthy weight, thanks
mostly to good genes. His father had given him that much, if nothing else.

Despite
the appearance of health, though, Mark was well aware that his cholesterol and
blood pressure levels were higher every year. Or in his case, two
years—which is about how long it took for him to actually show up at one
of the appointments Sharla made for him with their general practitioner. Mark much
preferred to leave his health in the hands of the Lord.

Quickly,
Mark threw his parallel Bible and the pages of the next day’s sermon into the
front compartment of his rolling attaché. The laptop and charger fit perfectly
into the second section. He gathered the rest of the papers on his desk and the
surrounding counters into one stack. He still needed to review the notes, but
he could finish it at home. If he made it there before midnight, he might
actually get to spend time with Sharla before she drifted off to sleep.

How
long has it been?

Another
tap on the door. “Enter.” With his back turned to the door, Mark switched off
his printer and locked the overhead cabinets containing confidential church
information. He heard the door open slightly, then close. He pivoted, expecting
to find Jonathan standing there.

But
this was definitely not Jonathan.
All that’s good and perfect comes from
God.
And He knew what He was doing when He made
that
woman. A
form-fitting red silk blouse defining her full rack. White linen skirt so tight
it bunched up across her hips. Legs that must have run track in high school,
maybe even college. And a pair of heels that added a good five inches to her
height, accentuating her lower half even more.

It
only took seconds for Mark to process her body. His eyes made it up to her face
in enough time to hide his intrigue. Hopefully. Respectfully, he stood. “How
can I help you?”

“Pastor,
I really need to talk to you.” She sat down in the chair across from him,
blocking his view of the clock.

“Um…well,
if you want to set up an appointment—”

“This
will only take a minute,” she pushed past Mark’s safeguards.

He
sat.

“A
long time ago, I made a big mistake. And now I need to fix it.”

 Her
perfume wrapped around Mark’s face. Sweet, but not overpowering. The whole
scene reminded him of those cartoons where a bull’s eye rotates around and
around, hypnotizing an unsuspecting character.

She
crossed one leg over the other, revealing a good six inches up the side of her
thigh. Bare, taut skin. “I just don’t know what to do. I was hoping you could
help me.”

Mark
was no stranger to women’s advances. Another thing he’d inherited from Mark
Wayne Carter, II was good looks. Deep brown skin, a head full of short but wavy
hair, and a sharp goatee could pull a woman from a mile away. But the one thing
Mark could say he’d done right in his marriage was to remain faithful to his
wife throughout their sixteen years together. He wasn’t going to blow it on
some misguided member who’d managed to outwit his new assistant.

Mark
stood again. He’d played around with this fire long enough. “My sister, if you
have accepted Christ as your savior, old things are passed away. It’s late. I’m
going to have to ask again that you to speak with Jonathan on your way out. He
can put you in touch with the counseling ministry.”

His
abrupt end to their conversation obviously caught her off guard. “Um, b-but,”
she stammered for words. “But
you’re
my pastor. Isn’t this what you’re
supposed
to do?”

Mark
ripped the top sheet from the pad of sticky-notes on his desk. “The word of God
is your counselor. Psalm one nineteen and twenty-four.” He scribbled the
reference on the note and handed it to the woman.

She
snatched it from his hand, a scowl on her face. Mark noticed that one of her
fake eyelashes slipped out of place. He had to hold in his laughter. “Meditate
on His word. Have a good night, my sister.”

Mark
walked her to his office door, then past Jonathan and out to the door of the
entire suite. “God bless you.”

The
woman didn’t have a chance to respond before the weighted door shut behind her.
With after-hours security on the church’s campus, Mark was sure she’d make it
back to her car safely.

Mark
turned sharply to face Jonathan, who sat at his desk with a bewildered look on
his face. “Sir, I-I, she said she was a frequent guest of yours.”

Mark’s
eyes turned to slits as he tried to decide if Jonathan was deranged or just deceived.
Since the boy was still in his 90-day probationary period, Mark would give him
the benefit of the doubt. “With the exception of First Lady Carter, I don’t
allow women into my office alone, especially not women dressed like
her
,
without one of the female ministers present. Do we understand each other?”

“Yes,
Pastor. I’m sorry. It’s just that my last supervisor had, you know, guests.
I-it won’t happen again.”

“Jonathan,
I don’t know what kind of pastors or preachers you worked with before me, but
I’m not
that
man.”

Chapter 2

Mark
was careful to watch the rear and side view mirrors as the garage lowered
behind his eight-year-old Cadillac Escalade. Though his ride didn’t turn heads
anymore, he still made it a habit to survey his surroundings in case somebody
wanted to try him. Maybe he’d slack up a bit once they moved out of their
quaint 2500-square-foot home and into the mini-mansion behind security gates
Sharla had her heart set on. Until then, he would remain on high alert.

A
side effect of being raised in one of the roughest areas of Houston was a keen
awareness of his environment. “If you get caught slippin’, it’s your own
fault,” his father had taught him during one of their rare free-world visits.

Mark
had tried to teach his own son, Amani, how to look out for danger, but being
raised in a fairly safe, middle-class world had distanced Amani from the
lessons of living in survival mode. The boy had grown up in a world where kids
left their bicycles on porches outside at night and people actually turned in
lost wallets to the police.

Much
to Mark’s dismay, Amani hadn’t been in a fight in all his thirteen years. Mark
had been in at least ten brawls by the time he was Amani’s age. He’d won some
and lost some. Gave and took black eyes and busted lips with the best of ‘em.
No matter, he’d walked away each time knowing he could throw down when pushed
to the brink.

This
comfortable lifestyle Mark provided for his family had come at a cost.

Mark
took his key from the ignition, clutched his bag from the passenger’s seat and
made his way around Sharla’s bright red Benz toward the doorway of the laundry
room.

The
scent of fabric softener greeted him upon entrance. He wanted to be glad about
the pleasant odor, but he couldn’t. Sharla didn’t do the laundry. She’d hired
some older, foreign woman to do their cleaning and washing. The woman, whoever
she was, did an excellent job. But Mark had to wonder exactly what Sharla did
all day that warranted paying someone else to take care of the home he’d
provided for them.

Sharla
didn’t work. She hadn’t homeschooled Amani since he started junior high school.
She’d delegated most of her previously held duties as First Lady to other women
at the church, claiming that she needed to concentrate on home. Somehow,
“concentrating on home” got translated to finding someone else to clean the
house.

But
Mark knew better than to question Sharla. The house was her jurisdiction. So
long as she stayed within the family budget, he’d keep his mouth shut unless he
wanted to handle the laundry himself.

“I’m
home,” he announced, not really expecting a response. Just seemed like
something men on TV did.

He
hung his keys on one of the hooks magnetically attached to the stainless steel
refrigerator.  He took off his tie and hung it on a bar chair, pried his
shoes off and left them under the kitchen table.

Sharla
would fuss. What else was new?

Mark
traipsed through the family room and up the staircase to his home office to
drop off the materials he’d comb through later. Down the hallway, he noticed
the blue glow of the big screen television coming from under the door to the
media room. He opened the door and found Amani stretched across the sectional
sofa.

“’Mani,
go to your bed,” Mark ordered softly, shaking his son’s shoulder.

Amani
gave a loud snort, scratched his head a few times, stretched, and then obeyed
his father’s directive. “Night, Dad.”

“Night,
man.”

As
Amani brushed past, Mark noticed that they were nearly the same height. Another
six months of this growth spurt and the youngest person would also be the
tallest person in the house.

Mark
grabbed the remote control and switched off the TV as his son trudged away to
his own bedroom.

Back
downstairs in his own space, Mark was surprised to find Sharla still up. She
was seated in their bathroom, fooling with her hair.

Well,
the hair that somebody put on her head. Granted, her style was always on point,
but Mark couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his wife’s
real
hair.

“Hey,
babe,” he said.

“Mmm,”
she moaned. To be fair, she did have several hairpins in her mouth. Apparently,
the current style required her to position her mane a certain way before lying
down on the satin pillowcases she dared not sleep without.

Mark
stood in the bathroom’s entry admiring his wife. He loved to see her like
this—no makeup, hair swept off her face, a T-shirt and loose shorts. Her
skin had always been a pool of caramel beckoning him to dive in when he studied
her for more than a few minutes. Though she had gained some weight over the
years, a part of him actually liked the fact that there was more of her to
love.

Watching
her breasts jiggle as she struggled to shove the hairpins in place reminded
Mark that he was indeed a lucky man.

“What?”
Sharla piped up.

“I’m
just looking at you.”

“Why?”

“Because
you’re beautiful.”

She
smacked her full lips. “Not beautiful enough for you to come home before
midnight, though.”

Why
does she always have to ruin a good thing?
Mark stuffed both hands into his pockets. As a matter of
habit, he checked his phone’s screen to see if there were any new texts or
email messages.

Sharla
rolled her eyes and carried on with the business of securing her hair. “That’s
what I thought.”

He
decided to backtrack. “Sorry I’m so late getting home.”

“I’m
not surprised,” she quipped.

Mark
leaned his weary body against the doorframe, trying to decide whether or not he
had enough energy left to wiggle through his wife’s brick-hard attitude and
find out what was really bugging her tonight.

He
gave himself the benefit of the doubt; maybe her problem had nothing to do with
him. Anyone in her family could have put her in a bad mood. Amani might have
said something crazy, something he’d been doing a lot more lately.

For
the record, he’d give her a chance to vent. “What’s really going on, babe?”

She
shook her head. “If you don’t know by now, I can’t help you.”

He
racked the last bits of his brain. Nothing out of the ordinary. “I’m too tired
for guessing games tonight.”

“And
I’m too tired to repeat myself.”

She
wrapped a black mesh thing-a-ma-jig around the base of her head. Somehow, it
kept its place.

Mark
figured there must have been some kind of Velcro strip holding it in place.
Sharla was right up there with the best of them when it came to keeping herself
up. As he understood it, this was something the women in her First Wives’
Fellowship taught her she needed to do.

Mark
remembered now. “The church?”

“Bingo.
Mark, when are you going to start
delegating
more?”

“I
do,” he barely answered. “I delegate what I can. But some responsibilities at
New Vision can’t be pawned off on other people.”

“How
about the responsibility of being a husband to your wife and a father to your
son here
at eight hundred Evanshire Street?”

“What
do you want me to do, Sharla? Ignore my calling?”

She
pouted, “I know you have to do God’s will. But I also know that I did not sign
up to be a pastor’s wife. I married a businessman, not a preacher.”

With
that, Mark dismissed himself and made his way back upstairs to the office.
They’d had this conversation too many times in the past few months for him to
count, and it never ended with compromise. Eventually Sharla would take a look
around and see that she had it pretty good. Once she came back to herself,
she’d offer to make him a red velvet cake—a most welcomed apology. He
would have to wait out her current tidal wave of attitude issues.

In
the meanwhile, all Mark could do was pray that the Lord would mature his wife
in Christ to the point where she could appreciate what God was doing with New
Vision. He’d keep praying for her until then, because it wouldn’t be fair for
him to have to choose between his God and his wife.

Mark
set aside what had just happened with Sharla in order to finish reviewing his
canned sermon. But the tension resurfaced as soon as he turned off the light in
his office and headed back downstairs again.

Part
of him hoped Sharla was sleep already. At least she wouldn’t be awake to give
him the cold shoulder. He always found it much easier to drift off with the
comforting idea that Sharla didn’t realize he was in bed than to think she was
ignoring him.

Mark
showered and climbed into their King-sized sleigh bed for what might as well be
considered a nap. A captivating glow from the pool’s lighting system streamed
in through the window.

When
he and Sharla spent their first night in the house, they had both been so
spellbound by the blue radiance, they’d stayed up nearly half the night in the
hot tub section drinking virgin strawberry daiquiris and enjoying sensual
pleasures.

Memories
of how much they used to enjoy spending time with one another kept Mark from
sleep.
Really, how long has it been?

He
listened closely for Sharla’s breathing pattern. Shallow and fast. She was
still awake.

Slowly,
he slipped his left hand across her waist. Rubbed his foot against her leg.
Waited for some reciprocity.

Since
she didn’t show any sign of resistance, Mark nudged his chin against her neck.
Kissed her ear the way he knew she liked it.

“Mark,
if you want to make love, why don’t you just say it?” Sharla blared.

“Because
I’m trying to
show
it,” he nibbled on her ear.

Sharla
shot up straight in bed. “What I want you to
show
me is that you care
about me and our son. You didn’t even
ask
about the conference with Amani’s
counselor yesterday.”

Finally,
Mark had a clue about his wife’s extended attitude. “Did you tell me about it?”

“Yes.
I sent you a text, since I didn’t see you Thursday
at all
.”

Mark
vaguely remembered seeing Sharla’s text flash across his screen, but all it
said was, “call me.” He hadn’t seen the message until after the YoungLife
fundraiser at the community center. By then it was almost ten o’clock and he
was on his way home. Sharla was sleep when he got back, so he guessed it must
not have been important enough for her to wait up. Maybe she’d figured out
whatever was on her mind earlier.

“Amani’s
grades are ridiculous. Four C’s, a B, and only one A. And I had to sit there
and let her tell me all this
without
you,” she stabbed at him with
words.

How
the heck did we go from almost making love to discussing report cards?
“I didn’t even know, Sharla. I’m sorry.
But can we talk about this
later
?”

“Like
you’re going to actually be awake and ready to talk when you finish doin’ your
business? Yeah, right,” she gave a sarcastic laugh.

“How
is it
my
business? This is
our
business,” Mark corrected her.

“You
can’t just spend all day at the church, come home after midnight, spend another
hour in your study, and then expect me to roll over and play lovey-dovey with
you,” she snarled, her delicate face marred with anger.

With
his heart rate still slightly elevated, Mark tried again. “Look, I’ll talk to
‘Mani tomorrow. But right now, baby”—he ventured to kiss her shoulder
again—“it’s about me and you.”

Sharla
balled a handful of covers into her fist and yanked the mass over her head as
she resumed her face-down, off-limits stance in bed.

It
took every ounce of godliness in Mark to keep from entertaining the irony of
refusing advances from a stranger only to come home and face rejection from his
wife.

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Stepping Down
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