10

 

 

“Scott? Is that you?”

As he shut the front door behind him, Scott lifted a trembling hand and kneaded his temple. “Yeah.”

A few seconds later, his mother joined him in the living room. After giving him a swift perusal, she closed the distance between them in three long strides. “What happened?”

“Choir practice was a disaster.”

She took his arm and led him to the sofa, pressing him down. “Where’s your medicine?”

“In the bathroom.”

She disappeared down the hall, returning a minute later with two capsules and a glass of water. Scott swallowed them in one gulp and leaned back against the couch.

Dorothy took the glass from his hand and sat in a chair beside him. “It must be a bad one.”

“Yeah. It came on a few minutes after rehearsal started.”

“Crummy timing.”

“No kidding. And listening to a bunch of off-key amateurs didn’t help.”

“They do their best.”

“It’s not close to adequate.”

“They try hard, though. I know you’re used to working with professionals, but most of the choir members have more enthusiasm than talent. They know they’re not Metropolitan Opera caliber—and no one at church expects them to be. If your standards are too high and you get too upset with them, people won’t enjoy the experience anymore and they’ll drop out.”

“I’m finding that out. I think I lost one tonight.”

“What happened?”

“I was trying to teach a new piece, and I got...upset. My head was pounding, and we were getting nowhere with the music. I suppose I was too hard on them. One of the choir members walked out.”

“Which one?”

“I don’t know. A woman. One of the sopranos.”

“Older or younger?”

Although he tried to conjure up an image, details of her appear­ance eluded him. No surprise there. He’d never paid much attention to the appearance of anyone in the choir. “Younger. Shoulder-length reddish-brown hair.”

“That had to be Karen—but walking out doesn’t sound like her. She’s usually not a wave maker.”

“Like I said, I came on a little strong.”

“You must have, if Karen walked out.”

“I ought to quit. This isn’t going to work.”

“We need a music director.”

“I’m not the right person for the job.”

She leaned back in her chair. “What will you do in­stead?”

“Hang out. Veg.”

“You’ve been doing that for two months. You have to begin thinking about your future.”

“I don’t have a future.” His response came out flat. Hopeless. The way he felt.

“That’s nonsense.” His ever-patient mother sounded aggravated. “You do have a future. It may not be the future you planned, but you do have one. It’s up to you to find it—and to stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

She leaned forward, her posture intent. “Lots of people encounter tremendous challenges. Lots of people have to cope with life-shattering events. Remember that student I mentioned, Steven Ramsey? He was a promising football star until an accident at practice a few months ago left him a paraplegic. There’s a young man who has to rethink not just his career, but his everyday life. Next to him, your injuries are minor. You can get out of bed. You can eat and drive and go to the bathroom by yourself. He has to relearn how to do all those simple daily activities.”

She moved closer. In-your-face close. “You can also have a career in your field if you want it. That option isn’t available to Steven. Think about that and get some perspective.” She paused—and delivered her zinger. “Maybe you should follow your doctor’s advice and see that psychologist.”

The thumping in Scott’s head intensified. He wanted to lash out, to tell her she was wrong and that he had every right to feel sorry for himself...but he couldn’t argue with anything she’d said. He had been too hard on the choir. It was time to decide what he wanted to do with his life. He did need to regain some perspective.

And perhaps he also needed help.

She laid her hand on his arm and softened her tone. “I’m sorry if that sounded harsh, but it had to be said.”

“That still doesn’t mean the choir job is a fit.”

“Why don’t you talk to Reverend Richards about it? Together, the two of you may come up with some ideas about how to deal with the service music until he finds a replacement for Marilyn. I know he’d be open to suggestions.”

He sighed. “I guess that’s the least I can do.”

His mother gave his arm an encouraging squeeze and stood. “Will you join me on the screen porch? I made some lemonade.”

“I’ll be out in a minute.”

He watched as she left the room. There was that lemonade analogy again. If life handed you lemons, you were supposed to make lemonade. He hadn’t discovered how to do that yet, but he couldn’t dispute his mother’s advice. It was time he learned.

And he also needed to make amends. To the choir as a whole—and to one member in particular.

 

* * *

 

The door to the physical therapy waiting room opened, and Karen glanced up from the magazine she was paging through. A sandy-haired man holding two cups of coffee stood on the threshold. After scanning the room, he spoke to the receptionist seated behind a frosted glass window. “Judy, have you seen Mrs. Montgomery’s daughter?”

Laying her magazine aside, Karen stood. “Excuse me...I’m Mrs. Montgomery’s daughter.”

At the man’s obvious puzzlement, Karen put two and two together. This had to be David, her mother’s therapist.

Smiling, she amended her reply. “I’m her other daughter, Karen. Val’s under the weather.”

David’s flash of disappointment was brief—but telling. “Nothing serious, I hope.”

“Just a summer cold, I think. How’s it going with Mom?”

“She’s progressing at a steady pace.” He suddenly seemed to remember he was holding two cups of coffee, and a flush crept up his neck. “Would you like some coffee?”

“No, thanks.”

“Margaret will be out in a few minutes.”

As he disappeared behind the door, Karen sank back into her seat. So that was David. The man Val had described as boy-next-door handsome. But her sister had definitely underplayed the assets of the tall, muscular, handsome man who had endeared himself to Margaret—and perhaps to Val. Based on the tableau that had played out today, there was certainly interest on his end. Did Val feel the same?

An intriguing question.

One she intended to get an answer to come Saturday morning.

 

* * *

 

As Scott surveyed Reverend Richards’s organized, un­cluttered office, he tapped the arm of his chair in a rapid, stac­cato rhythm. He didn’t belong in a minister’s inner sanctum—and if his mother hadn’t laid that guilt trip on him, he wouldn’t be here. She was the one who’d gotten him this gig. She could have gotten him out of it.

On the other hand, he was thirty-eight years old. If he wanted to back out of a job, he supposed he should do the dirty work himself.

The door opened, and Reverend Richards hurried in. “Sorry to keep you waiting. A water pipe in the basement’s about to blow, and while a fountain in the sanctuary might be pretty, there are better options to accomplish such an architectural feature.”

Smiling, he held out his hand. Scott returned the man’s firm clasp, and as the minister sat in the chair beside him, a ray of sun from the window highlighted the faint brushes of silver in the brown hair at his temples as well as his kind eyes. The man radi­ated the same peace up close as he did from the pulpit on Sunday.

Lucky him. It must be comforting to feel that secure of your place in the world.

“What can I do for you on this glorious day?” The minister crossed an ankle over his knee, posture receptive and relaxed.

“I, uh, wanted to talk to you about the music director job.”

“I’ve been meaning to speak to you too. The choir has never sounded better. I like some of the new music you’ve introduced.”

“I don’t think the choir does.”

The pastor waved aside the comment. “We all have a tendency to get set in our ways and not push ourselves too hard. There’s always some resistance to change and challenge.”

Given the stony faces on the other side of the piano, “animosity” would be a better term than “resistance.”

“The thing is, Reverend, I don’t think this is working out.”

He expected the minister to be upset. Instead, the man’s features remained placid, his posture open, his tone conversational. “Why not?”

“For several reasons. Physical ones, first of all.” He lifted his left hand. “I only have partial function in this, and the keyboarding has been difficult. I also get blinding headaches that turn me into a grouch. I become impatient and difficult to deal with. You can ask the choir about that. I guarantee you’ll get an earful.” He fisted the fingers of his uninjured hand. “On top of all that, I’m not religious. I haven’t attended services for years, and it feels wrong to be involved in church music. I can’t muster any enthusiasm for the job.” He sighed and lowered his voice. “Or anything else, for that matter.”

Leaning forward, Scott clasped his hands between his knees and studied the subtle pattern in the carpet beneath his feet. “The truth is, since the accident I’ve been living under this dark cloud. All I want to do is stay in my room and shut the door. Going to choir practice is a real stretch. I’m not ready to deal with people. Or, frankly, with life. I only took this job because my mother pushed.”

Scott felt the minister studying him.

“Why don’t you tell me about the accident?”

At the man’s quiet request, he pulled back, putting a bit more distance between them. “I don’t remember much.”

“Whatever you can recall.”

His lungs balked, and he stared out the window at the huge, sheltering oak tree on the lawn. “I don’t talk about it often.”

“Then let’s chat about your career.”

His stomach contracted. That subject was almost more painful. “I don’t have a career.”

“The one you had before.”

The man wasn’t giving up. Better throw him a few crumbs and hope he’d back off.

“I assumed Mom had told you. I was a jazz musician.”

“Yes, she mentioned that. What was it like?”

Scott closed his eyes, recalling the moments when everything had clicked, and every note had throbbed with passion and feel­ing and meaning. When he’d lost himself in the melody and been one with something bigger than himself. When he’d carried the audience along with him, given them a glimpse of the power and beauty of music. The connection, the emotion, had been so intense it often took his breath away.

“Amazing.” That single word summed up the awe and wonder of it.

The room was quiet for a few seconds. “I can see how much you love it.”

He let out a slow breath. “There’s nothing like it. Nothing. Music has a profound ability to touch the heart and soul. Those moments are rare but worth all the effort.”

“I have to believe the effort part is significant.”

“Yes. Years of lessons and practice. Night after night playing in smoky clubs. Constant travel. It’s a hard life, but all the sacrifices were about to pay off. I played with a trio, and we’d signed a recording contract with a major label. We were on the verge of national recognition, which would have shot us up to a whole new level. We’d have gotten the more prestigious gigs. Made some decent money. Not that that was our main goal, but it would have been a welcome bonus.”

“Your mother told me you were the sole survivor of the accident.”

A shaft of pain seared through him. “Yeah. Except for the truck driver who fell asleep at the wheel and hit us. He only had minor injuries. But Joe and Mark, the other musicians, as well as our publicist, didn’t make it.”

“I assume you’d known the other members of the trio for a long time.”

“Ten years. We were like brothers.” His voice choked.

“In other words, you not only lost your career but your family.”

“I never thought about it in those terms, but yeah. That’s what it felt like. And I don’t understand why I was the one who sur­vived. What did I have to offer that they didn’t? I wasn’t any more talented than they were, or a better person. Why me?”

“God had a reason.”

“You think?” Scott gave a bitter, mirthless laugh. “It would be nice if he shared it with me.”

“He will.”

“I’m not in a patient mood.”

“Patience can be a difficult virtue to master.”

“No kidding.” Scott hoped his sarcasm didn’t offend this man, whose concern appeared to be genuine. But what could a minister know about starting over? About having all your plans destroyed in the blink of an eye and being forced to change direction midstream? “I’m sorry. No one really understands my situation.”

“Oh, I don’t know. More people may be able to appreciate what you’re going through than you imagine. That’s one of the dangers of letting our own problems become our dominant focus. We begin to get myopic and believe we’re the only one in the world who’s ever been tested with certain challenges. But many people start over.” He leaned back. “I happen to be one of them.”

Scott frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I wasn’t always a minister. In fact, this is my first congrega­tion. I spent most of my life in the corporate world. Quite happily.”

Scott took a moment to process that disconnect. “But…deep inside you must have always wanted to be a minister.”

“Hardly. I only had a passing acquaintance with the Lord. Min­istry wasn’t anywhere on my radar. I had my life all mapped out. I’d worked out my long-range plan and knew where I wanted to be at every stage. God wasn’t part of my equation.”

“So what happened?”

“Nothing as dramatic as your experience, but day by day I began to realize the path I’d mapped out might not be the one God had in mind for me. I’ll admit I fought him every step of the way—but he persisted. Eventually I went back to church, hoping to find some answers there.”

“Did you?”

“Not at first. After believing for most of my adult life that my future lay in the corporate world, it took me a while to recognize there were other options. That the skills I’d developed in human resources and planning and mediation and communication could have broader applications. I also began to realize that the life I’d planned had some significant downsides. My job kept me on the road three weeks out of four, and that lifestyle wasn’t conducive to a wife or family. I suspect if I hadn’t changed direction, I might never have mar­ried—and I’d have missed an experience that has added incredible richness and dimension to my life.”

Scott regarded the minister. The man hadn’t been forced by traumatic circumstances to give up his dream, yet he had grappled with a powerful, compelling call to change course, one that had required deep soul-searching and had wreaked havoc with his plans—the very whirlwind he himself was going through.

“I guess you do have some inkling of what I’m experi­encing.”

“And so do many others who’ve confronted life-changing challenges. But the other point of my story is to suggest you can still have a career in music, one that uses your considerable skills—though it may be a different kind of music career than the one you planned. Right now, you’re on the same journey I was, searching for direc­tion. And it will come. You’ll find your new path if you remain open to possibilities.”

An upbeat platitude—but it didn’t mitigate the darkness in Scott’s soul. “I wish I shared your optimism. All I feel is lost—and alone.”

The man leaned forward and touched his arm, his manner intent…and caring. “You’re never alone. Never. It may be trite, but the footprints story is very true.”

Scott searched his mind, seeking some context for that reference, but came up blank. “The footprints story?”

“You’ve never heard it?”

“No.”

“It’s a simple tale, about a man who railed at God after feeling deserted in his darkest hours. In response, God showed him the path of his life, in the form of footprints on a beach. In many spots, there were two sets of prints. But in other places, during his darkest hours, there was only one set. The man pointed out to God that on those occasions, he’d walked alone. And God’s response was short but profound. He said, ‘No, my son. In the places where you see only one set of prints, I was carrying you.’”

The breath jammed in Scott’s lungs.

Could that be true? Had God been with him all through these terrible days, giving him the courage to get up and face each new morning, helping him get through the hours one second, one minute, at a time?

Maybe.

Because he couldn’t have survived the blackness on his own. Some greater force must have been at work.

The minister broke the silence at last, his voice gentle. “I think we’ve wandered far afield from the purpose of your visit. You came to discuss the choir, and the truth is, we could use your help until we find a replacement for Marilyn.”

Scott did his best to shift gears. “I hate to leave you in the lurch, but to be honest, I think I’ve burned some bridges. The choir may not want to work with me anymore.”

“You’ll find they’re a very forgiving bunch. After all, they put up with my off-key singing every week. And the phrase ‘I’m sorry’ has far more power than you can imagine.”

“What about my hand?”

“I haven’t noticed any negative impact on our service music as a result of your injury. Would you think about giving it another try?”

Half an hour ago, Scott would have said no. Now he wavered. For some reason, he felt less alone, less hopeless—and more willing to try and see this commitment through.

“I can’t make any long-term promises.”

“I’m not asking for any. We’ll take it week by week.”

If the man was that willing to work with him, how could he refuse? “You win.”

“I hope it will be a win/win. May I ask you one more favor? If the darkness begins to close in on you again, call me. Day or night.” He withdrew a card from his pocket and held it out. “My office and cell numbers are on there.”

Scott took the card—and as his fingers closed over it, the tangible symbol of caring and support felt like a lifeline. “Thank you.

“I know you don’t think of yourself as a religious man, but can you indulge me while I speak to God?” Instead of waiting for him to respond, the minister bowed his head and clasped his hands. Scott found himself doing the same, though the long-unused posture felt awkward.

“Heavenly Father, I ask your continued caring and support for Scott as he seeks a new path for his life. Please let him feel your abiding presence and know that on the days he feels most lost and alone, you are beside him, watchful and loving and ready to assist. I also pray that your healing touch will help Scott recover from his injuries so he may once again find joy in his music—and have the ability to share that joy with others. Amen.”

The minister motioned toward the window. “Now go out and enjoy this beautiful day the Lord has made. Try to leave your concerns, if only for a short while, in his capable hands.”

Scott didn’t know if that was possible, but as he emerged from the building into the sunlight, his heart did feel lighter.

And for the first time in a long while, he began to believe that maybe, just maybe, he might have a future after all.