After thirty minutes of sitting and staring into space, I was tempted to get up and leave. I didn’t know what I was thinking to come into a church. This was a useless waste of time, but for whatever reason I remained seated.
While it was true I had nowhere else to go, I should be looking for a job or doing something. Anything. Sitting in church wasn’t going to solve my problems.
“You got anything for me?” I challenged. I wasn’t sure who I was talking to, not that it mattered. It was a ridiculous question.
This was bad. I hadn’t been free for twenty-four hours and already I was losing it.
Sagging forward, I leaned my head against the back of the wooden pew while resisting the urge to give in to self-pity. I was disgusted with myself when tears filled my eyes. I was stronger than this. I released a slow, shuddering breath, my chest tight with anxiety and fear.
In that moment something changed. Something in me. I experienced a sense of peace. Or something like it. I hadn’t felt peaceful in so long that I couldn’t be sure what it was. Of course, it could have been my imagination, but some of the tenseness left my shoulder blades and I felt my body relax.
Shrugging it off but willing to test this strange feeling, I tried speaking again but then realized I had nothing to say.
I needed help. A little guidance would be appreciated. It wasn’t like I was looking for God or anyone else to part the Red Sea or to give a blind man sight. All I cared about was where my next meal was coming from and where I would find a bed that night. The thought of sleeping on the street terrified me. A job would be helpful, too.
The more I dwelled on my immediate future, the more tense I grew. Whatever peace I’d experienced earlier was fleeting at best. I closed my eyes and exhaled, searching to find it within myself.
None came. No surprise there. The only person I’d ever been able to depend on was myself. If ever there was a time I needed to pull myself up by my bootstraps, it was now.
Coming into this church had been a mistake. I should have known better. Churches like this weren’t meant for people like me.
I started to get up, feeling a little like Indiana Jones in the movie when he had to step off a ledge in faith and hope that a bridge would appear out of nowhere. As I stood, my purse dropped to the floor, making a loud noise that seemed to reverberate through the church like an echo against a canyon wall. For just an instant I stood frozen.
It was then that I noticed I wasn’t alone. Someone else was in the church, kneeling in the front. At the sound of my purse dropping, the man turned and looked over his shoulder.
Then he stood and I froze in shock as he started walking toward me. Without a doubt I knew that whoever this man was, he was going to ask me to leave. I stiffened, determined to meet him head-on. If he was going to toss me onto the street I would be sure to tell him I’d been kicked out of better places than this.
I knelt in front of the church, broken and lost.
Empty.
My wife was dead, my children were hurting, and my congregation was drifting away. Fewer and fewer numbers showed up each week. In essence, my faith was shot.
On my knees, I poured out my heart in prayer, seeking guidance and help. I’d started out in ministry with enthusiasm and high expectations. My goal was to make a difference in people’s lives, to write books based on Scripture that would reach others in their faith journey.
The problem, as best as I could describe it, was this: I couldn’t give away what I didn’t have to give. I felt bereft, hurting and uncertain. Katie’s death had taken a toll on me and the children—that was understood. My congregation had been patient with me. More than patient, but it was three years now and it was no better.
The intense grief had passed, but I realized things were different. Something had changed.
I wasn’t the same man any longer.
I didn’t have what it took to stand in front of the church each week and speak to the needs of the people. I couldn’t help anyone when I seemed incapable of helping myself. I’d stumbled in my own walk, lacking faith, lacking trust.
Simply lacking.
Some might suggest I’d burned out, but the fact was that I hadn’t been able to start a fire. There’d been nothing to put out, especially in the last three years. I hung my head, disappointed in myself, pleading with God to guide me, show me what He would have me do.
I was half inclined to submit my resignation to the elders. That was an option, of course, but the ramifications to myself and the children would be substantial. Mark and Sarah had been through enough, dealing with the death of their mother. The last thing they needed at this point was to be uprooted from the only home they’d ever known. Plus, in my current state of mind, I couldn’t be assured another church would be willing to accept me as their pastor or that I should even continue in ministry. Maybe it would be best all around if I sought out another career entirely.
I’d talked with Linda Kincaid, one of the women in the congregation, who worked as a tireless volunteer. She had retired from teaching and played a major role in the life of the church. She’d become my right hand, along with my assistant, Mary Lou. Between the two of them, they’d kept me afloat this long.
Linda was a trusted friend and a good sounding board. I don’t know what I would have done without her. It was her hard work that kept the volunteer programs running smoothly. As I prayed, I thanked God for her and her willingness to step in and help. She’d suggested I stick it out, give myself time. She’d once told me that if I’d felt God was far away, then I was the one who’d moved.
Talk about hitting the nail on the head. What I needed now was to find a way back.
As I continued to pray I heard a noise in the back of the church. I wasn’t aware anyone else was in the sanctuary. When I got up from my knees I saw a woman standing at a back pew. Even from this distance I noticed she had the look of a deer caught in the headlights. Her wide-eyed expression made me think she was up to no good.
I started toward her with the elders’ warnings ringing in my ears, reminding me of the risk I took leaving the church unlocked during the day. They felt it was an open invitation to vagrants and vandals. I’d won the argument, but now I wondered if I’d made the right decision.
As I drew close I saw it was a young woman. Her gaze skirted mine, which made me suspicious.
“Can I help you?” I asked. “I’m Drew Douglas, the pastor here.”
“Pastor?” she repeated as if the word felt awkward on her tongue.
“What can I do for you?” I asked, doing my best to disguise my reservations. The small suitcase by her side was curious. She didn’t look like a tourist, and the church, while one of the older ones in town, wasn’t exactly a Seattle attraction.
The woman swallowed hard and offered me the weakest of smiles. “I was just leaving. Don’t worry, I’ll get out of your hair.”
She seemed to muster up her courage, and her eyes snapped defiantly.
“I’m not here to ask you to leave.”
Her steady look challenged me. She seemed to be saying she didn’t believe I’d welcome her in the church.
“Do you need help?”
She blinked hard, as though surprised by the question. “No…I don’t need anything.”
Again, she spoke with a razor-sharp edge, her voice cutting, her shoulders stiff. She might claim otherwise, but I knew she was lying. She struggled to look indifferent, but I read the desperation in her eyes. This woman needed help, but pride prevented her from asking for it.
“Can you tell me why you’re here?”
“Ah…no, well, yes.” She fumbled with her words and didn’t seem to know where to start. “The bus let me off in front of the church.”
“The bus,” I repeated, unable to follow her line of thought.
She lifted her head and looked me square in the eyes. “I was released from prison this morning.” As if anticipating me tossing her out, she reached for her suitcase and started for the door.
Years ago I’d been involved in prison ministry, but my work had always been with men.
“Please don’t go,” I said and gestured toward the pew. “You clearly came into the church for a reason. Let’s talk.”