My cheeks heat and I focus on the box. The room suddenly feels stuffy, and I struggle out of the cardigan that covers my thin blouse. One thing I learned quickly in Texas is to always dress in layers.
The plucking of guitar strings fills the space and relaxes me. Cameron’s back is to me, and he’s hunched over like he was in the picture, only this time he stops every few chords and writes in the notebook in front of him. The starting and stopping doesn’t bother me, but he seems to get more agitated with each strum.
I turn away because it’s none of my business and I’m already more invested than I should be. I’m here to help Ralph, not Cameron, and to do that I need to sort a thousand prayer requests.
My fingers lift the first one from the stack, and I stare at the elegant handwriting:
I’m a terrible daughter. Four months ago I put my mother in a nursing home because she no longer had the capacity to care for herself and needed full-time nursing assistance. Forcing her to leave her home of fifty-five years was the hardest decision of my life and has damaged our relationship immeasurably. She’s called me a traitor, a liar, a thief, and many other words I won’t repeat. Now, to my dismay, the doctors have told me she’s going blind. Her eyesight has been deteriorating for a while, but as of this month she cannot even read the largest font on her Kindle. For her, this is a tragedy nearly as great as moving. Reading is her favorite pastime and now even that pleasure is gone. I know I need to visit more, to be her eyes for her, but I can’t seem to get my feet to move. I feel lost and completely depleted and truthfully very angry at God and at her.
Please pray for the Lord to give me perseverance and forgiveness. And to bring someone into her life who can fill the gap until I find the strength to take my rightful place by her side once again.
Every part of me that might have approached this task flippantly withers and dies. I turn the card over. The woman didn’t leave her name, but she did write her mother’s down. Sandra Cox. Serenity Hills Nursing Facility, Midlothian, Texas.
With shaky fingers, I set the card down. It’s the first time in my life I want to believe there’s a God somewhere who might hear this poor woman’s prayer.
Two hours pass before Ralph ducks through the doorway, and I’m pretty proud of the progress I’ve made. Cameron gave up on the song writing about forty minutes after he started and said something about adding lyrics into the computer for Sunday. He still hasn’t returned.
“How’s it going?” Ralph looks even more foreboding from my seated position, so I stand to get a little leverage.
“Good. I’ve gone through about a hundred and fifty and sorted them in the piles you mentioned. The medical one was way too big, so I’ve done subcategories with ones that have follow-up information and ones that are anonymous.” I point to my two highest stacks. “I can call and get updates on those if you’d like, before we pass them along.”
It sounds crazy, but I think I actually see the stress roll away from his eyes. “This is excellent, January. And while it’s a great idea to get updates, let’s wait until we’re all caught up. The last thing we need is someone complaining that their best friend’s cousin got a call and they didn’t.”
I think he’s joking until I realize he’s not. “People would actually complain about that?”
He snorts, and I’m learning that he makes that sound every time he finds something to be ridiculous. “People would complain about the color of my shoes if we let them.” He puts out his hands, palms up. “Go ahead and give me what you have so far.”
I hand over the four stacks but find myself hesitating as I let the follow-up medical one go. Sandra’s card is at the bottom, and every loop and period in her daughter’s handwriting is etched inside my head.
“What if I wanted to, um, do one of them myself? Is that allowed?” The words come out before I realize the impact of what I’m asking. Not only am I stepping way over the line, but I’m also taking away someone else’s prayer for that woman.
“Sure. Of course you can.” Ralph’s voice hitches in surprise, yet I don’t think it’s because he knows I’m a fraud. I think it’s more because he long ago stopped looking at this stack of cards as anything more than another task on his to-do list. “Which one?”
The sudden searing guilt makes no sense. I don’t believe in God, so these prayers are empty anyway, right? Still, I make no move to take Sandra’s card from the pile.
“I have it already. You can take all those.” It’s not totally a lie. I have it in my head as clear as if I’d taken a photocopy. There’s no reason to keep the card for myself. Sandra’s daughter asked for prayer, and I have no doubt she didn’t want it to come from someone like me.
seven
As far as first days go, today could definitely be counted as a success. I finished half of my sorting task, and since Ralph had left the office for a hospital visit, Cameron insisted on showing me around the sanctuary before I left for the day. Surprisingly, I feel none of the apprehension I did yesterday about stepping into the worship building. I don’t even check the sky for lightning.
Probably because Cameron is a much more pleasant tour guide than Margie.
“So, how did the song writing go?” I ask because he only came back to the office once, and that was just to ask me if I wanted something for lunch. I declined, having brought a thermos of Ramen noodles. Yeah, I know, it’s one hundred percent salt. Don’t judge.
“Terrible. I’ve rewritten the same verse at least fifteen times.” He shakes his head and swipes his keycard over the sensor. “I’ve been mentally blocked since the concert.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.” His tone indicates he doesn’t want to talk about it, so I refrain from asking any more questions.
We turn a corner where Cameron flips up four different light switches. The auditorium comes to life, and I’m stunned by what I see. Three huge projector screens, a state-of-the-art sound system, and laser lights. I always pictured sanctuaries to be filled with long pews and solemn music, but this building resembles a rock venue much more than it does a church.
“Over here,” he says, pausing on a set of stairs at the far end of the stage.
I follow him up and through a wide black doorway. It leads to a bright hallway that I assume is where all the backstage magic happens.
We pass a control room, and then he points to an open space that looks a lot like a teachers’ lounge. “This is where we hang out before and during the service when we’re not onstage. And to the right is Pastor Thomas’s quiet room.”
“He needs a quiet room?” For some reason I picture Pastor Thomas humming ohhhmmm with his massive legs crossed, his meaty fingers making a circle. “What does he do in there?”
Cameron pauses like he’s never bothered to ask that question. “Well, I assume he probably prays or talks through his sermon. More than anything, it’s a peaceful area where he gets settled before going out to preach in front of thousands of people.”
I halt. “Wait, thousands? How many people go to this church?”
“We run two services . . . so, not counting kids, we probably have close to twenty-five hundred attending each weekend.”