I’m grateful when he returns to his remote-control-car speed and quits with the demon talk. I’ve never been one for horror flicks and certainly not in the building where I plan to spend every weekday. Yet Eric talks about the devil as if he’s real and not just some made-up character to scare children into listening to their parents.
Mom believes in fate and karma. I don’t believe in anything except my own abilities. Good things happen when you work hard, and bad things happen when you’re stupid. San Antonio, stupid. Grace Community, hard work. Well, at least I think this job will be a good thing. I swivel my head to check the edges of the hallway, half expecting a masked man in a red suit and horns to come popping out, and rush to catch up with Eric.
He stops a few strides later at a closed door. “This is it.”
It’s the only office door I’ve seen closed in the building, and I have a sinking suspicion that Ralph is not going to be one of the overtly friendly ones I’ve met so far.
Eric knocks and a gruff “Yeah?” echoes under the door, confirming my apprehension. Oh well, it’s just for a few months. I can endure anything for that length of time.
As we walk into Ralph’s office, my brain nearly explodes. The problem with categorizing useless details to an obsessive level is that stimulation overload is a real thing. Not only is the office twice the size of all the others I’ve seen, but it’s also a complete disaster. Like a serious you-may-need-to-be-on-Hoarders kind of mess.
My glance darts across the room. The corners are filled with cardboard boxes, not labeled but overflowing with small magazines named Quarterly. Paper and trash fill the floor around Ralph’s desk even though he has two good-sized trash cans, both of them overflowing like the boxes. There are four bookshelves in the room, which are packed tight. Books are stacked in front of the vertical rows to the point I can’t even read the spines.
A small table—maybe an intended workspace—is shoved against the back wall and completely covered with craft supplies and what looks to be old media equipment. The serial number on the TV is KR786W79V. I focus on that number, and slowly the ache in my head starts to subside.
“Now you know why we make him keep his office door shut,” Eric whispers to me, and I think he means it to be funny, but I’m still way too close to panicking to find any humor in the situation.
“Where am I going to sit?” It’s a selfish thing to ask, I know, especially since it’s fairly obvious that this poor guy is completely swamped, but there is no way I can be of any help in a space this full of stimulation.
Eric frowns like he can’t believe he didn’t think of that little detail. “Hmm. Well, the band room is unused most of the time. I’ll get you a key, and you can work there for now.”
I think of Cameron, and my chest flutters. His guitar pick hasn’t left my person since he gave it to me. It’s tucked in the hidden pocket on the inside of my skirt, pressed against my hip bone. The comfort a tiny piece of plastic gives makes no logical sense. But even now, my palm is pressed against the spot and I feel some of the tension fade. “Thank you.”
Ralph stands as we shove aside stray boxes and progress to the center of the room. My eyes lift toward the ceiling. The man’s a giant, the kind who has to duck so that the light fixture doesn’t brush the top of his head. I stand there seriously wondering if I need to buy some magic beans and call myself Jack.
“Ralph, this is January Sanders. She’ll be assisting you for the next few months while the prayer initiative gets squared away.” He looks around the room. “And she can help you with any other projects you have.”
Ralph doesn’t look pleased, nor does he offer his hand like everyone else I’ve met here has. “Does that mean we’re not getting a permanent minister? Because you promised me when you tacked on these new initiatives that we’d hire someone for pastoral care.”
“And we will, just as soon as we find the right person.” His voice turns authoritative. “In the meantime, January here is very proficient at organizing.”
Not sure where Eric got that tidbit from, but okay, I’ll do what I seem to do best here: smile and keep my mouth shut.
Ralph presses his lips into a line and looks down at me. “Sorry about the mess. This is what happens when you have one person doing a ten-person job.” It’s not just bitterness in his tone, it’s utter defeat, and suddenly Ralph doesn’t seem so intimidating. In fact, my heart fills with an odd feeling. I don’t even know what to call it, only that I really want to help this man.
“Well, now you have two people, or maybe two and a half, if you count it in feet.”
My joke seems to make his face relax slightly, the redness easing a little from his cheeks. Now they’re more reddish-orange, matching his hair and the curly strands on his forearms. Ralph reminds me of an old Scottish highlander, lacking only the beard and the accent, though imagining the lilt when he talks might keep things light between us. And maybe I’ll throw in a kilt, since his clothes look like they were pulled from his bedroom floor this morning. His short-sleeve, button-up shirt has so many wrinkles, I lose count after I get past the first arm hem.
A ding sounds from Eric’s pocket, and he pulls out his phone. “I have to run.” He glances between me and Ralph like he feels bad for leaving but has no choice. “You two get acquainted and I’ll check in later.” He slides his phone back and turns to escape, stopping only to tell me he’ll leave the band room key with Margie.
The air turns awkward almost immediately after. “Well, any idea what you need me to do first?”
Ralph walks to the back wall, picks up an overflowing box of thin one-sided cards, and stops in front of me. “Sort these.”
I realize he’s waiting for me to react. “Oh, sorry.” I adjust my purse on my shoulder and take the box from him. It seems bigger and heavier in my arms, but then again, he’s likely more than a foot taller than me and easily a hundred pounds heavier.
“For now, just separate them by medical, family, job, and any other grouping that stands out.” He tugs open a drawer in his desk, fiddles around, then pulls out a bag of rubber bands. “Once we get a good idea of what we’ve got, we’ll start distributing them among the staff.” He sets the bag on top of my teetering pile of papers, and I know at any minute a cascade of white is going to spill over.
I carefully adjust and dare to ask a really stupid question. “What are these?”
“Prayer requests from the congregation. We get about a hundred every Sunday and even more through our website.” There’s far more than a hundred pieces of paper in this box. Ralph must sense my confusion and adds, “We’re a little behind, as you can see. These go back to October, so you may find that some of them have already been answered. You can make a stack for those, as well.”
“You’re telling me you guys read all of these every week?”
“Not just read them, but pray for them all week, and ideally we’d like to follow up with the members.” A sigh of resignation fills the room. “Unfortunately, right now we’re lucky if they make it out of the box.”
It’s weird; I’ve always heard people promise to pray or say they will, but I never really paid much attention. I thought the words were throwaway phrases, like Let’s get together or I’ll call you, to end the conversation and get on with the day. But Ralph seems genuinely concerned over the untouched pile of papers staring back at us. Of course, considering the state of his clothes and his office, his frustration might have nothing to do with the prayer cards at all.