Perfect Match, page 38
“I’ve revised three sermons but so far they’re falling flat. They just don’t seem like the right uplifting message for Sunday.” She looked upwards. “Lord it is one a.m. on Saturday and you do remember that the next day is Sunday? I’m supposed to preach, and I need some help from you. Anything, throw me something, a bone, a scrap, a morsel, something I can work with.”
She sat quietly for several minutes. Her hands moved up to the edge of the desk, as she looked up and said, “That’s it? One word? I know you’re into radical living, but do you really think we can handle it?”
She waited a few more minutes. One word kept reverberating through her mind. She looked up again. “Okay, Lord, if that’s your final answer, I’m going to jump on and ride this horse, but you sure better be in control of the reins.” She looked down at her desk, smiling.
Ramona pulled a couple reference books and her Holy Bible closer to the computer. She poised her hands on the keyboard. As she typed, her movements jostled her breasts. Her breasts were pointing and moved in rhythm, as if proofing every word streaming across the screen.
Sunday’s sermon was under construction.
Dr. Hertford entered the small waiting room, where Madison was alone, seated on the edge of a green covered chair. Fright was written on her face, accented by darkening shadows under her eyes. She stood, expecting the worst.
Hertford’s smile and greeting was warm, even though it was 2:20 Saturday morning. When EMS was on the way to the hospital, he’d been patched through on the call and gave instructions, as he went to the hospital. “Selena’s okay, but first tell me how you’re doing.”
“Terrible. That’s all I know, but I want to know about Selena.” Her chin quivered.
Hertford motioned for her to sit, as he pulled a chair closer. “We finally got her stabilized. She was stubborn about any treatment. Pulled her IV line out twice, before I could give her a mild sedative to calm her. She’s sleeping now. We can give her medications intravenously, as well as nutrition, until we can work through these explosive stressors, and you know what I’m talking about.”
He paused.
Madison nodded slowly. “I take full responsibility for the blowup in your office, but I thought Selena was calm after we left, and I steered clear of anything controversial, until she told me her intention not to eat or medicate.”
He said, “I’m not letting Selena off the hook. It sounds like she’d made those harsh decisions on her own, whether you’d said anything more or not. She’s claimed her adulthood status, and I’ll expect her to shoulder some of the work in finding a solution.” He took a pause. “Do you think some counseling would be helpful?”
She shrugged. “Possibly. I’m willing to try anything.”
“It might be best if you don’t visit her for a day or so. You can look in on her before you leave, but don’t wake her. I’ll have one of the psychiatrist come by. Sometimes a neutral party can pinpoint the problem better than those in the middle of it.” He scratched the side of his head. “Do you think three-way counseling would be a possibility?”
Her face puzzled. “Three-way? I don’t understand.”
“You, Selena, and Roscoe meeting with a counselor? Selena seems to have a genuine appreciation for him.”
Madison thought a moment, then shook her head. “I doubt if he’d want to ever see me again.” She looked down at her clasped hands. Her shoulders slumped.
Hertford let her thought hang in the air a moment. A door slammed somewhere down the corridor. He leaned forward. “He doesn’t hold any ill-will toward you, Madison, and to put your mind at ease, he has no sexual interest in Selena. He…uh...expressed great admiration for both of you. He didn’t know that you were mother and daughter.”
Madison remained at the hospital, checking on Selena every hour, standing by her bed watching her young body, and reflecting back through the years. Selena had been a brave trooper, and yes she’d had her own share of hurts growing up with her health issue. Madison thought, why couldn’t I have been a little more understanding? Maybe none of this would have happened.
She left the hospital at daybreak, frazzled from lack of sleep, but not wanting to sleep. She stopped on her way home at Krispy Kreme, and picked up two donuts and a large coffee.
She cleaned up the kitchen from the night before, while munching on the donuts and sipping her coffee. The Mexican Chicken meal had to be thrown out.
She finished off her coffee, and headed for the shower, gave herself a good shampoo, and put on fresh jeans and cotton shirt.
After cleaning her room, she went to straighten up Selena’s bedroom. Seeing her rumpled bed, and two pairs of shoes scattered, brought their argument, last night, rushing back. She sat on the edge of Selena’s bed looking around at the things that reflected. Her recent high school diploma, already framed with her tassel attached at the corner, her two special awards displayed in a shadow box, other little things that helped create her presence.
Madison reached down, and picked up scattered papers and a notebook that had fallen out of her canvas messenger bag when the EMS staff bumped her bed as they placed Selena on the stretcher last night. Madison was placing them back in the canvas bag when she noticed some newspaper clippings sticking out of a red folder. The one of D.R. Fallington’s wreck was on top.
She opened the folder and found an assortment of clippings pertaining to her rise as CEO of Fallington, and a sought-after speaker in the business community. Coverage of her TV appearances was included.
Articles from the Internet had been downloaded, and printed that focused on D.R. when he was CEO.
What captivated Madison were the many notes Selena had made in the margins of her notebook. Some mystified her. R. is really a nice guy, but M. doesn’t think so. Change female protagonist description in final draft. Let R. figure out who C. is. Wish I could be around for that discovery. Let M. have son.
On and on Madison thumbed through the pages, puzzling through Selena’s notes. The last one choked her up. My prayer that mom will find a man who will love her forever.
She fell over on Selena’s bed, curling up, holding the folder, crying softly, “My precious, precious, Selena.”
Sleep overtook her.
Roscoe and crew had worked until noon, when they had to knock-off after running out of sheet rock. The vendor’s delivery truck had mechanical problems, and it would be Monday before they could deliver again.
The crew returned back to the office and after a quick bite of lunch, they put in two hours working on Roscoe’s roof-top garden. A celebration cheer went up when they left at two o’clock, except for Billy. They had the rest of Saturday, and all of Sunday away from work. For a crew that had worked seventy-five hours that week, a day and a half of rest seemed like eternity.
The craftsmanship of Romantic Renovations had spread from neighborhood to neighborhood. As projects were underway, bright pink signs were posted in yards, and lettered with Another Romantic Renovation under construction; Let us romance your home also. New business was booked daily. Billy had hustled the scheduling of projects and the updating of financial projections for Roscoe to consider.
Billy said, “I never imagined the business taking off like this.”
“It wouldn’t have happened, without your help.” Roscoe smiled. They gathered around one of the office work tables. “What’s it looking like over the next few months?”
Billy spread out some sheets, and pointing with a yellow pencil stub, said, “With the cash reserve that’s building, you’ll be able to add an additional truck, three more people, and some professional grade tools. In addition we should finish up renovating the garage-warehouse out back in another few days.”
Roscoe thought a moment. “Will those expenses interfere with the scheduled wage increase for everyone?”
“No, and your cash reserve should increase another forty percent. The bank is going to love RR’s financial picture.” He smiled.
Roscoe drummed his fingers on the table, and chuckled. “After the ruckus of the Tojo arrest, the owner of the three dilapidated houses, and three empty lots on the street contacted my realtor indicating that he’ll sell at a sacrifice. I’m thinking I’ve got enough leverage to swing the deal. How about taking a look at the houses and let me know what you think.”
Billy smiled. “If you purchase, you’ve already got three people who are interested.”
“Who?”
“Me, and the guys, Jerome, and Ned. We’ve already checked them out. They need major work but the basic bones of all three are rock solid.”
Roscoe laughed, “I can see this neighborhood is about to get an earth-shaking renovation.”
For the remainder of the afternoon, Roscoe worked with his shirt off on his roof-top garden. He’d gradually gained a decent tan, and his laparoscopic incision sites had healed nicely, leaving remnants of incisions.
When the crew was doing an inside renovation they wore soft pink cotton shirts, with tan pants. If outside, the men and women wore pink T-shirts. The Romantic Renovations logo was embroidered on all shirts. Roscoe encouraged the crew to wear their shirts any time, and to always carry business cards and brochures with them when out running errands. It worked. Word that there was a new business in town, was spreading like wildfire.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Sunday
Madison had rolled over, stretched, and was ready for more sleep, but cracked an eyelid, realizing she was still on Selena’s bed, staring at the clock on the small nightstand. Six o’clock. As she stretched again, and sat on the edge of the bed, she figured that she’d slept almost eighteen hours. How tired was I, she wondered.
She was stiff from such a long sleep, and did a few free-hand exercise movements to loosen up. She was hungry, but not, and opted for a wake-up shower.
When drying off she looked at her nude body in the mirror. She acknowledged that she still had a fit body with shapely breasts, hips, and legs. She took a stance like a tennis player, knees bent, and leaning over slightly. She shifted her weight to the right, then left, noticing her lean shape. Her breasts bounced, waiting to be caressed and kissed by a loving man. Then what is it about me that attract the wrong men, she thought. Not coming up with an answer, she finished drying off, and slipped on jeans and T-shirt.
While glancing through the Sunday newspaper, she settled on coffee and the other donut. Afterwards she was restless, wandering from room to room, ending up in Selena’s bedroom.
She dialed the nurses’ desk. The nurse on duty said, “Selena is stable, and late yesterday the psychiatrist got her to split a coke with her while they talked. That’s a breakthrough, but Hertford wants to get a recommendation from the psychiatrist before you visit her again.”
Madison’s heart sank as she got off the phone. I can’t see my own daughter? Am I an ogre? Yeah, probably. She was feeling low, feeling sorry for herself, as she sat staring at the wall, before deciding to get ready and go to church. If that didn’t help, nothing would.
She brushed out her hair, used a hint of makeup, and put on an above-the-knee-length, one-piece summer dress with teal, blue, and green florals, and a black sash as the belt. She wore a single gem on a dainty silver necklace.
She slipped on two-inch black heels, a spray of fragrance, and was out the door.
As Madison turned up the church drive she read the marquee. Sermon: The “F” Word.
She eased up the incline, thinking, has Ramona lost her mind? The church will probably be empty.
But the parking lot was packed.
The seats were going fast. Madison took the first available.
Before the service got started, Pastor Ramona mingled up and down the aisles, greeting and shaking hands as people entered the sanctuary.
Soon the 10:45 a.m. service was underway. The praise team equipped with electronic keyboard, guitars, drums, harmonica, tambourines, and other assorted odds and ends, stirred the crowd with contemporary music, tapering off to a couple of slower songs.
The service moved through the usual order of worship, quick announcements, responsive readings, offering, prayers of the pastor and The Lord’s Prayer by the congregation.
The sermon was next.
Ramona in her signature collared, long-sleeve white cotton blouse, snug-fitting jeans, and sandals with blue straps, strode to the pulpit. Her wireless mic was lost in her full head of blonde hair framing her face. A silver necklace with a cross rested at the top of her cleavage. Her top button was undone.
Her smile radiated, as she began. “Welcome again on this beautiful Sunday morning. I’m so glad you’re here, and especially those standing. I hope we’ll run out of seats at every service.”
There was a sprinkling of muffled laughter.
She paused as her eyes rested upon the congregation.
“I had prepared to bring you messages from the bravery of Joshua, the fearfulness of Gideon, or the faithfulness of Ruth, but they weren’t working out. I prayed and mediated and I kept getting the same answer for today’s sermon…The F Word. So, if the F-word bombs this morning, then I guess The Lord and I will have to find another place.”
There were a few nervous faces in the packed church.
“I realize that we have a mixed congregation of young and older, women and men, but I want every person to hear the F-word loud and clear. If you’re under age 18 do not close your ears, and if you’re over the age of 18 do not close your ears.
“I know the F-word makes many of us feel uncomfortable, and yes at times very embarrassed just thinking about the word. And even worse when we feel forced to do the F-word. Often we’re repulsed by it. And yet…now get this…each one of us said the F-word a few minutes ago. It is the twenty-ninth, and thirty-seventh words in the Lord ’s Prayer that we pray during every service. The F-word is forgive or forgiveness.”
There was a slight stirring of relief in the congregation, with smiles and a little laughter.
Ramona looked surprised, and said, “Oh, I see, some of you were thinking of the other F-word. Oh, my!” And then she smiled.
“I assure you the F-words, forgive or forgiveness, are much more exciting words, and if you get involved with them, your life will be turned upside down.”
Her left hand picked up her small red leather-bound Holy Bible, held it up as seven different colored ribbons streamed from the binding, and as she took the steps down from the pulpit, through the opening in the altar, she said, “Let me get closer to you, and tell you some things about forgiveness.”
She alternated walking from the left of the sanctuary to the right, sweeping the congregation with her eyes as she dipped into Old Testament and New Testament scriptures, painting an image of humanities’ struggle with forgiveness.
The people sat captivated as Ramona reeled off scriptures detailing the difficulties mankind has had with forgiveness. She recited most scriptures from memory as she walked up the two aisles of the church, even to the back pews, tempting them with tantalizing tails of how forgiveness had worked in the lives of biblical men and women.
Each time Ramona lifted another colored ribbon, they knew they’d get another blast from the soul-shaking scriptures.
In wrapping up her sermon, she moved back to the front of the altar. “You know by now that Jesus Christ is the master of forgiveness. He has extended it so openly, so freely, and oh, so sacrificially, but He made it crystal clear that he wants a forgiveness partnership with us. Listen to our final scripture, this is Jesus speaking in Matthew 6:14-15 “For if you forgive others their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you; but if you do not forgive others, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.”
She paused a moment, looking out across the faces. The congregants sat motionless.
“As you can see from scripture, when we refuse to forgive others it creates a gridlock. We get all jammed up inside. It shuts off the forgiveness channel for us. Our refusal to forgive others usually stems from how another person has caused us some kind of hurt, either physically, mentally, emotionally, even spiritually. And when we’re hurt, well, we’re hurt. It’s painful. Most hurts will stop, go away or scar over in some way over time. Even Jesus had scars.”
She gave the congregation a moment.
“But when we refuse to forgive others, it means we’re clinging to the hurt that someone caused. We refuse to give up the hurt, because as long as we hold on to the hurt, we can remain a victim, and we feel justified in holding blame against our enemy, the offending party. And that balances everything out doesn’t it?” She paused. “Wrong.”
Ramona walked slowly from the left to the right side of the sanctuary, peering at the crowd, stretching her neck, as if looking for a particular person. She came back to the center front, looking from side to side. “I have a feeling that some of you are hurting this morning, and maybe, just maybe you’ve caused some hurt for someone else. If that has happened to you, I want you to get relief this morning.”
She turned and looked at the altar railing that ran across the front. She turned back to the congregation. “The altar has always been sacred to God. It has a long history down through the ages. It’s always been a special gathering place for humanity, especially God’s people. We worship around this altar.
“The altar is such a special place, but one day I began to wonder if God thought we’d trash it up by bringing our troubles to it, but we know Jesus wants us just as we are, troubles and all.
“Whoever you are, Italian, Polish, American Indian, black, Hispanic, white, male, female, it doesn’t matter, if you’re hurting or you’ve hurt someone, and you need to deal with this forgiveness gridlock, I want you to join me at the altar. Spiritual renovations and redemption can begin at this altar.
“You know in this church we don’t pressure or emotionalize people into making spiritual decisions. God knows how to speak to your heart in a special way. So we don’t feel that we need to yell at you.
“Our praise team is going to play some soothing music, so there’s no rush. If you feel you can’t make it on your own down to the altar, or you’d just like for someone to walk with you, raise your hand, and one of our counselor-ushers will assist you, and if that doesn’t work for you, then I’ll come to your seat.”
She sat quietly for several minutes. Her hands moved up to the edge of the desk, as she looked up and said, “That’s it? One word? I know you’re into radical living, but do you really think we can handle it?”
She waited a few more minutes. One word kept reverberating through her mind. She looked up again. “Okay, Lord, if that’s your final answer, I’m going to jump on and ride this horse, but you sure better be in control of the reins.” She looked down at her desk, smiling.
Ramona pulled a couple reference books and her Holy Bible closer to the computer. She poised her hands on the keyboard. As she typed, her movements jostled her breasts. Her breasts were pointing and moved in rhythm, as if proofing every word streaming across the screen.
Sunday’s sermon was under construction.
Dr. Hertford entered the small waiting room, where Madison was alone, seated on the edge of a green covered chair. Fright was written on her face, accented by darkening shadows under her eyes. She stood, expecting the worst.
Hertford’s smile and greeting was warm, even though it was 2:20 Saturday morning. When EMS was on the way to the hospital, he’d been patched through on the call and gave instructions, as he went to the hospital. “Selena’s okay, but first tell me how you’re doing.”
“Terrible. That’s all I know, but I want to know about Selena.” Her chin quivered.
Hertford motioned for her to sit, as he pulled a chair closer. “We finally got her stabilized. She was stubborn about any treatment. Pulled her IV line out twice, before I could give her a mild sedative to calm her. She’s sleeping now. We can give her medications intravenously, as well as nutrition, until we can work through these explosive stressors, and you know what I’m talking about.”
He paused.
Madison nodded slowly. “I take full responsibility for the blowup in your office, but I thought Selena was calm after we left, and I steered clear of anything controversial, until she told me her intention not to eat or medicate.”
He said, “I’m not letting Selena off the hook. It sounds like she’d made those harsh decisions on her own, whether you’d said anything more or not. She’s claimed her adulthood status, and I’ll expect her to shoulder some of the work in finding a solution.” He took a pause. “Do you think some counseling would be helpful?”
She shrugged. “Possibly. I’m willing to try anything.”
“It might be best if you don’t visit her for a day or so. You can look in on her before you leave, but don’t wake her. I’ll have one of the psychiatrist come by. Sometimes a neutral party can pinpoint the problem better than those in the middle of it.” He scratched the side of his head. “Do you think three-way counseling would be a possibility?”
Her face puzzled. “Three-way? I don’t understand.”
“You, Selena, and Roscoe meeting with a counselor? Selena seems to have a genuine appreciation for him.”
Madison thought a moment, then shook her head. “I doubt if he’d want to ever see me again.” She looked down at her clasped hands. Her shoulders slumped.
Hertford let her thought hang in the air a moment. A door slammed somewhere down the corridor. He leaned forward. “He doesn’t hold any ill-will toward you, Madison, and to put your mind at ease, he has no sexual interest in Selena. He…uh...expressed great admiration for both of you. He didn’t know that you were mother and daughter.”
Madison remained at the hospital, checking on Selena every hour, standing by her bed watching her young body, and reflecting back through the years. Selena had been a brave trooper, and yes she’d had her own share of hurts growing up with her health issue. Madison thought, why couldn’t I have been a little more understanding? Maybe none of this would have happened.
She left the hospital at daybreak, frazzled from lack of sleep, but not wanting to sleep. She stopped on her way home at Krispy Kreme, and picked up two donuts and a large coffee.
She cleaned up the kitchen from the night before, while munching on the donuts and sipping her coffee. The Mexican Chicken meal had to be thrown out.
She finished off her coffee, and headed for the shower, gave herself a good shampoo, and put on fresh jeans and cotton shirt.
After cleaning her room, she went to straighten up Selena’s bedroom. Seeing her rumpled bed, and two pairs of shoes scattered, brought their argument, last night, rushing back. She sat on the edge of Selena’s bed looking around at the things that reflected. Her recent high school diploma, already framed with her tassel attached at the corner, her two special awards displayed in a shadow box, other little things that helped create her presence.
Madison reached down, and picked up scattered papers and a notebook that had fallen out of her canvas messenger bag when the EMS staff bumped her bed as they placed Selena on the stretcher last night. Madison was placing them back in the canvas bag when she noticed some newspaper clippings sticking out of a red folder. The one of D.R. Fallington’s wreck was on top.
She opened the folder and found an assortment of clippings pertaining to her rise as CEO of Fallington, and a sought-after speaker in the business community. Coverage of her TV appearances was included.
Articles from the Internet had been downloaded, and printed that focused on D.R. when he was CEO.
What captivated Madison were the many notes Selena had made in the margins of her notebook. Some mystified her. R. is really a nice guy, but M. doesn’t think so. Change female protagonist description in final draft. Let R. figure out who C. is. Wish I could be around for that discovery. Let M. have son.
On and on Madison thumbed through the pages, puzzling through Selena’s notes. The last one choked her up. My prayer that mom will find a man who will love her forever.
She fell over on Selena’s bed, curling up, holding the folder, crying softly, “My precious, precious, Selena.”
Sleep overtook her.
Roscoe and crew had worked until noon, when they had to knock-off after running out of sheet rock. The vendor’s delivery truck had mechanical problems, and it would be Monday before they could deliver again.
The crew returned back to the office and after a quick bite of lunch, they put in two hours working on Roscoe’s roof-top garden. A celebration cheer went up when they left at two o’clock, except for Billy. They had the rest of Saturday, and all of Sunday away from work. For a crew that had worked seventy-five hours that week, a day and a half of rest seemed like eternity.
The craftsmanship of Romantic Renovations had spread from neighborhood to neighborhood. As projects were underway, bright pink signs were posted in yards, and lettered with Another Romantic Renovation under construction; Let us romance your home also. New business was booked daily. Billy had hustled the scheduling of projects and the updating of financial projections for Roscoe to consider.
Billy said, “I never imagined the business taking off like this.”
“It wouldn’t have happened, without your help.” Roscoe smiled. They gathered around one of the office work tables. “What’s it looking like over the next few months?”
Billy spread out some sheets, and pointing with a yellow pencil stub, said, “With the cash reserve that’s building, you’ll be able to add an additional truck, three more people, and some professional grade tools. In addition we should finish up renovating the garage-warehouse out back in another few days.”
Roscoe thought a moment. “Will those expenses interfere with the scheduled wage increase for everyone?”
“No, and your cash reserve should increase another forty percent. The bank is going to love RR’s financial picture.” He smiled.
Roscoe drummed his fingers on the table, and chuckled. “After the ruckus of the Tojo arrest, the owner of the three dilapidated houses, and three empty lots on the street contacted my realtor indicating that he’ll sell at a sacrifice. I’m thinking I’ve got enough leverage to swing the deal. How about taking a look at the houses and let me know what you think.”
Billy smiled. “If you purchase, you’ve already got three people who are interested.”
“Who?”
“Me, and the guys, Jerome, and Ned. We’ve already checked them out. They need major work but the basic bones of all three are rock solid.”
Roscoe laughed, “I can see this neighborhood is about to get an earth-shaking renovation.”
For the remainder of the afternoon, Roscoe worked with his shirt off on his roof-top garden. He’d gradually gained a decent tan, and his laparoscopic incision sites had healed nicely, leaving remnants of incisions.
When the crew was doing an inside renovation they wore soft pink cotton shirts, with tan pants. If outside, the men and women wore pink T-shirts. The Romantic Renovations logo was embroidered on all shirts. Roscoe encouraged the crew to wear their shirts any time, and to always carry business cards and brochures with them when out running errands. It worked. Word that there was a new business in town, was spreading like wildfire.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Sunday
Madison had rolled over, stretched, and was ready for more sleep, but cracked an eyelid, realizing she was still on Selena’s bed, staring at the clock on the small nightstand. Six o’clock. As she stretched again, and sat on the edge of the bed, she figured that she’d slept almost eighteen hours. How tired was I, she wondered.
She was stiff from such a long sleep, and did a few free-hand exercise movements to loosen up. She was hungry, but not, and opted for a wake-up shower.
When drying off she looked at her nude body in the mirror. She acknowledged that she still had a fit body with shapely breasts, hips, and legs. She took a stance like a tennis player, knees bent, and leaning over slightly. She shifted her weight to the right, then left, noticing her lean shape. Her breasts bounced, waiting to be caressed and kissed by a loving man. Then what is it about me that attract the wrong men, she thought. Not coming up with an answer, she finished drying off, and slipped on jeans and T-shirt.
While glancing through the Sunday newspaper, she settled on coffee and the other donut. Afterwards she was restless, wandering from room to room, ending up in Selena’s bedroom.
She dialed the nurses’ desk. The nurse on duty said, “Selena is stable, and late yesterday the psychiatrist got her to split a coke with her while they talked. That’s a breakthrough, but Hertford wants to get a recommendation from the psychiatrist before you visit her again.”
Madison’s heart sank as she got off the phone. I can’t see my own daughter? Am I an ogre? Yeah, probably. She was feeling low, feeling sorry for herself, as she sat staring at the wall, before deciding to get ready and go to church. If that didn’t help, nothing would.
She brushed out her hair, used a hint of makeup, and put on an above-the-knee-length, one-piece summer dress with teal, blue, and green florals, and a black sash as the belt. She wore a single gem on a dainty silver necklace.
She slipped on two-inch black heels, a spray of fragrance, and was out the door.
As Madison turned up the church drive she read the marquee. Sermon: The “F” Word.
She eased up the incline, thinking, has Ramona lost her mind? The church will probably be empty.
But the parking lot was packed.
The seats were going fast. Madison took the first available.
Before the service got started, Pastor Ramona mingled up and down the aisles, greeting and shaking hands as people entered the sanctuary.
Soon the 10:45 a.m. service was underway. The praise team equipped with electronic keyboard, guitars, drums, harmonica, tambourines, and other assorted odds and ends, stirred the crowd with contemporary music, tapering off to a couple of slower songs.
The service moved through the usual order of worship, quick announcements, responsive readings, offering, prayers of the pastor and The Lord’s Prayer by the congregation.
The sermon was next.
Ramona in her signature collared, long-sleeve white cotton blouse, snug-fitting jeans, and sandals with blue straps, strode to the pulpit. Her wireless mic was lost in her full head of blonde hair framing her face. A silver necklace with a cross rested at the top of her cleavage. Her top button was undone.
Her smile radiated, as she began. “Welcome again on this beautiful Sunday morning. I’m so glad you’re here, and especially those standing. I hope we’ll run out of seats at every service.”
There was a sprinkling of muffled laughter.
She paused as her eyes rested upon the congregation.
“I had prepared to bring you messages from the bravery of Joshua, the fearfulness of Gideon, or the faithfulness of Ruth, but they weren’t working out. I prayed and mediated and I kept getting the same answer for today’s sermon…The F Word. So, if the F-word bombs this morning, then I guess The Lord and I will have to find another place.”
There were a few nervous faces in the packed church.
“I realize that we have a mixed congregation of young and older, women and men, but I want every person to hear the F-word loud and clear. If you’re under age 18 do not close your ears, and if you’re over the age of 18 do not close your ears.
“I know the F-word makes many of us feel uncomfortable, and yes at times very embarrassed just thinking about the word. And even worse when we feel forced to do the F-word. Often we’re repulsed by it. And yet…now get this…each one of us said the F-word a few minutes ago. It is the twenty-ninth, and thirty-seventh words in the Lord ’s Prayer that we pray during every service. The F-word is forgive or forgiveness.”
There was a slight stirring of relief in the congregation, with smiles and a little laughter.
Ramona looked surprised, and said, “Oh, I see, some of you were thinking of the other F-word. Oh, my!” And then she smiled.
“I assure you the F-words, forgive or forgiveness, are much more exciting words, and if you get involved with them, your life will be turned upside down.”
Her left hand picked up her small red leather-bound Holy Bible, held it up as seven different colored ribbons streamed from the binding, and as she took the steps down from the pulpit, through the opening in the altar, she said, “Let me get closer to you, and tell you some things about forgiveness.”
She alternated walking from the left of the sanctuary to the right, sweeping the congregation with her eyes as she dipped into Old Testament and New Testament scriptures, painting an image of humanities’ struggle with forgiveness.
The people sat captivated as Ramona reeled off scriptures detailing the difficulties mankind has had with forgiveness. She recited most scriptures from memory as she walked up the two aisles of the church, even to the back pews, tempting them with tantalizing tails of how forgiveness had worked in the lives of biblical men and women.
Each time Ramona lifted another colored ribbon, they knew they’d get another blast from the soul-shaking scriptures.
In wrapping up her sermon, she moved back to the front of the altar. “You know by now that Jesus Christ is the master of forgiveness. He has extended it so openly, so freely, and oh, so sacrificially, but He made it crystal clear that he wants a forgiveness partnership with us. Listen to our final scripture, this is Jesus speaking in Matthew 6:14-15 “For if you forgive others their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you; but if you do not forgive others, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.”
She paused a moment, looking out across the faces. The congregants sat motionless.
“As you can see from scripture, when we refuse to forgive others it creates a gridlock. We get all jammed up inside. It shuts off the forgiveness channel for us. Our refusal to forgive others usually stems from how another person has caused us some kind of hurt, either physically, mentally, emotionally, even spiritually. And when we’re hurt, well, we’re hurt. It’s painful. Most hurts will stop, go away or scar over in some way over time. Even Jesus had scars.”
She gave the congregation a moment.
“But when we refuse to forgive others, it means we’re clinging to the hurt that someone caused. We refuse to give up the hurt, because as long as we hold on to the hurt, we can remain a victim, and we feel justified in holding blame against our enemy, the offending party. And that balances everything out doesn’t it?” She paused. “Wrong.”
Ramona walked slowly from the left to the right side of the sanctuary, peering at the crowd, stretching her neck, as if looking for a particular person. She came back to the center front, looking from side to side. “I have a feeling that some of you are hurting this morning, and maybe, just maybe you’ve caused some hurt for someone else. If that has happened to you, I want you to get relief this morning.”
She turned and looked at the altar railing that ran across the front. She turned back to the congregation. “The altar has always been sacred to God. It has a long history down through the ages. It’s always been a special gathering place for humanity, especially God’s people. We worship around this altar.
“The altar is such a special place, but one day I began to wonder if God thought we’d trash it up by bringing our troubles to it, but we know Jesus wants us just as we are, troubles and all.
“Whoever you are, Italian, Polish, American Indian, black, Hispanic, white, male, female, it doesn’t matter, if you’re hurting or you’ve hurt someone, and you need to deal with this forgiveness gridlock, I want you to join me at the altar. Spiritual renovations and redemption can begin at this altar.
“You know in this church we don’t pressure or emotionalize people into making spiritual decisions. God knows how to speak to your heart in a special way. So we don’t feel that we need to yell at you.
“Our praise team is going to play some soothing music, so there’s no rush. If you feel you can’t make it on your own down to the altar, or you’d just like for someone to walk with you, raise your hand, and one of our counselor-ushers will assist you, and if that doesn’t work for you, then I’ll come to your seat.”
