Wood Saga: Church Decaf
Written By Jeff Phillips
May 5th, 2010
Jeff Phillips of Wood Sugars, and author of Whiskey Pike and Turban Tan, not only explores religious conviction, but a man’s struggle against another’s misguided point of view and stubborn sense of justice.
“Coffee brewed…& fellowship crucified. Hank Laird makes a colossal mistake in the eyes of Pastor Dale…”
The floor boards creak with the pacing of Pastor Dale, adding spice to the cool, intermittent spring rain tapping against the window. His steps are heavy, not only from his stocky figure, but by the agitation that looms behind his tired eyes. The midnight silence is just as burdensome, amplified by a stewing sense of insomnia, a new feeling for Dale. A full stomach from a savory dinner just hours prior should have put him out the moment his head hit the pillow. And window open: check! To keep his hot blooded body from sweating itself awake. The rain outside is not so heavy as to reverse the necessity of its gape.
He clutches a mug, stained along the outer circumference with an image of the heavens. The steam bobs with his tugging on the tab of a chamomile tea packet. He sips and brushes dry the liquid that splashes and clings to his brown mustache. He adjusts the fabric of his robe and sinks into an armchair. The tea rests upon his lap with one hand while reaching for the bible on the coffee table. He jitters the pages. He closes shut the book and rubs his eyes.
Pastor Dale pulls up the receiver of an old rotary phone, the color of pale mustard, while searching for a phone number in the printed newsletter that says “St. Daniels New Assembly of God: Member Directory.” He settles upon the name Hank Laird. He repeats the phone number to himself.
He dials. The ring tone chirps four times. A tired voice answers.
“Hello.”
“Hank!”
“Pastor Dale? It’s late. Is everything okay?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The question is: is everything okay with you?”
“Yes. Yes. I’m fine. What’s up?”
“I don’t like to sweat the small stuff. But even the small stuff can really make me feel quite disrespected.”
“I’m sorry…did I do something to you?”
“Your prank has got the best of me but I’m not the one laughing and would appreciate it if you admit your regret for it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m really sorry, I don’t Pastor Dale.”
“Before I press further, I do want to thank you and Beth for having me over for supper earlier this evening.”
“It was our pleasure.”
“Now that we’ve stated our gratitude, let’s get into the heart of the matter. Tomorrow is a big morning for me, my first Easter Sunday service…”
Pastor Dale’s voice tightens. Hank opens his lips. Pastor Dale continues, steamrolling Hank’s sentence before it has the chance to resound.
“How did it go down Hank? Is it possible you mixed up the coffee cans? Perhaps your attempt at mood lighting created such dim detail of all that you could see in the kitchen, and was in the end distracting, inhibiting your ability to discern…red for regular….green for decaf.”
“I’m really quite confused here.”
“I can see how they would look the same under certain lighting conditions. Or perhaps I am being much too understanding of circumstance. Is it possible you only wanted to make one pot of coffee and didn’t think I’d notice? Or is it possible this was done on purpose?”
“I…well I made one pot of coffee and I drank what you drank, but-”
“When you made some coffee after the meal, which I appreciate, the appearance of the hospitality was so nice, so nice. But I especially stressed decaf. Decaf. I don’t deal with caffeine very well. I knew if I had caffeine I would be up for hours. I have been up for hours.”
“I’m sorry. I’m pretty sure I made decaf.”
“Decaf would not keep me up for hours. I can’t sleep. I’m going to be a mess tomorrow.”
“I pulled down the green can, which is decaf…”
“This is absolutely not a time to further your cover up. You’re furthering a lie. I don’t appreciate this trick. At all. At all! I would appreciate an apology.”
“I’m sorry Pastor. I thought I was making decaf.”
“I don’t want to hear explanations. I want to hear a simple apology and acknowledgement for a misdeed.”
“I don’t understand the hostility Pastor Dale.”
“I don’t understand the reasons why you would want to sabotage me. To go out of your way to invite me to dinner? When I was disinterested in coffee you offered decaf and said ‘one must have little taste of coffee to go with Beth’s incredible crumb cake’ so I said okay to coffee, but only if it was decaf.”
“I honestly thought I was making decaffeinated coffee. I really did.”
“You must think this whole situation is hilarious, keeping a man up past his bed time. Ruining Easter Sunday for a whole congregation for the sake of a practical joke! I hate being the bad guy here.”
“You’re making me feel like a bad a guy! I’m really sorry!”
“Well, now I don’t understand your hostility. You are not welcome in my church until you can understand what you have done to me on the eve of a very important day to me!”
Pastor Dale hangs up the phone.
The following morning begins with a slight mist, but the sun breaks free from the blanket of clouds and casts its brilliance upon the white top of the steeple and vinyl siding. Each ray enters joyously through the stained glass, bringing frames and shades of red, blue, green, yellow, orange, pink, and purple to a ceremonious dance. The color casts abstracted shapes of shepherds and suppers onto the radiance of the young pastor.
Pastor Dale smiles upon the children at the head of the alter, a circle of youth, all various ages, but under eight, sit cross legged as Dale speaks a mini sermon before he is to release them for Sunday school activities.
This is going well, he thinks, despite the lack of sleep.
He knew his God had blessed him with the adrenaline necessary to spread his word, against all obstacles and booby traps by way of an ordinary liquid.
He tells a funny passage about a child giving his candy to a less fortunate child, and how the giving child was later rewarded for having no cavities at his next Dentist visit. He says a prayer. The children obediently bow their heads. He releases them. They are a stampede of joy and innocent reverence down the aisle to the rear of the sanctuary where a tall, young lady with thick glasses greets the children with a smile and escorts them away.
Pastor Dale watches them and smiles to himself as he notices Hank Laird enter through the back of the sanctuary, sheepishly taking a bulletin from the greeter. He then quietly and apologetically takes a seat in one of the folding chairs brought in from the garage for this day of annual record-breaking attendance!
Pastor Dale says a quiet prayer to himself; thanking God for helping Mr. Hank Laird to see the error of his action and for bringing him in humbled.
Hank Laird thinks about the green coffee can with the word decaffeinated imprinted on its label, wrapped in the plastic crumple of an old grocery bag, waiting as evidence in the trunk of his car. He plans to show this to Pastor Dale after the post service potluck.
Pastor Dale takes a deep breath and delivers his first Easter Sunday sermon to the congregation before him.
After the service, the Youth Group unleashes the Sunday School children to find the plethora of plastic eggs amidst the tall unkempt grasses of the lawn rejuvenated by spring showers.
Hank paces up and down the parking lot, kicking gently at the gravel.
Dale strolls up the clay walk-way, smiling at the children. He catches sight of Hank.
“Mr. Laird. Makes you wish you had a child, huh? To see their glee at un-covering something hidden? Thank you for coming by.”
“Pastor Dale, can I speak to you a moment?”
“Mr. Laird, now is not a good time, I need to be ducking back in to help with the potluck. I assume from your attendance today you that you repent, so all can be awash.”
“Well, Pastor Dale…”
Hank Laird chokes on his very words. He pictures himself unveiling the green canister from behind the veil of the plastic bag for Pastor Dale to see, in front of the Youth Group that cheers on the hunt, and indirectly, Hank’s justice. Hank’s envisioned confidence dissipates, sapped with the sun, much in the same way it eats the morning mist. Hank wonders if Pastor Dale will laugh at his evidence and accuse him of purchasing a fresh can this very morning. There has been a well publicized coffee sale at Parker’s Pharmacy, Hank remembers. The flyers pop in neon, inserted in the Sunday paper. Hank Laird can see his Pastor’s retort before it happens. It freezes him. He remembers the history of every simple purchase he has ever made at the store. Never asking for a receipt. No strip of paper etched with a date…And he was noticeably late to this morning’s service! In the eyes of the Pastor, most likely late due to the check out line!
Hank Laird glances back at his vehicle, at the trunk in which he can no longer bring himself to pop open and display his salvation to the Pastor. And beyond, through the old brick of the church, into the far and untouchable reaches of the sanctuary where a member of the church board prepares and percolates decaffeinated coffee.
Hank Laird sizes up the Pastor. Pastor Dale takes a deep breath and touches Hank’s back.
“Relax Hank, I’m not going to crucify you.”
Pastor Dale chuckles.
A young girl bounds up to Pastor Dale, offering up a plastic egg, similar in hue to her pink Sunday dress. She opens it. A few jelly beans spill and disappear in the grass.
“Would you like a jelly bean Pastor Dale?” She pronounces through the gap in the front of her mouth, baby teeth missing.
Again, Pastor Dale chuckles.
“Are they sugar-free?” he inquires. “Don’t just say they are if you really don’t know.”
The young girl stops to think, furrowing her brow. It appears almost painful, her thinking.
Pastor Dale turns back to Hank.
“Beth really is a lovely cook. What’d she bring? Hopefully nothing too spicy. She isn’t shy about dousing the deviled eggs with cayenne pepper.”
“Beth decided to stay home this morning.”
“Well, she drank more coffee than I did. She probably didn’t sleep a wink. Way to go.”
Hank Laird bites his lip, makes a fist in his pocket, and politely excuses himself from attending the pot-luck. Pastor Dale shrugs his shoulders at Hank’s announcement of departure while popping a jelly bean in his mouth.
“She insisted. You think I’ll regret this?”
Hank disengages from the conversation. He waves good bye to the young girl, who does not notice, as she is so fixated on the Pastor’s unctuous chewing.
While taking the longer, more scenic drive home, Hank Laird imagines himself a more comfortable member of the congregation at each Church he passes, despite the denomination. Up the long winding road which wraps the rising land, Hank removes himself further from the township. Even the Baptist Missionary, seated as though it were the high and mighty from the top of tallest point within city limits looks inviting to Hank.
He allows his car to slow, rolling to a stop.
“He was up all night because he was a nervous wreck about preaching to filled pews for the first time,” he grumbles. “I wish I had brought that to his attention. The guy needs some perspective. Holy hot shot! I’ve been going there since before I was baptized! And he wants to come waltzing in and replace the retired! And act like it’s his church! It’s our church, DALE!”
He taps the gas pedal and continues the commute home. Hank, often guilty of day dreaming from behind the wheel, focuses not so much on the road ahead, but replays in his head the round of prayers before communion, looping the inner audio, burnt into memory of Pastor Dale asking the entire congregation to keep the family of Hank Laird in their thoughts and pray that the Lord bless them with courage. Familiar friends twisted their heads back to look at him, eyes filled with pity, having assumed that Hank must have been diagnosed with cancer to inspire the Pastor to seek the Lord’s help for him. How ignorant they were to the fact that Dale was subtly stabbing him in front of everyone! It burns with each replay. During the ninth remembrance Hank’s vehicle collides with a farmer’s mailbox, releasing a small cluster of helium filled bunny shaped balloons. A yellow flag stating “He Is Risen Indeed!” falls from its hitch on the post. Slowed by the muggy air it finally settles atop some freshly planted hyacinths. Hank Laird rubs the kink in the back of his neck, snapped in by the sudden whiplash. He knows full well this injury will be the least of everyone’s concern here. A child on the far end of the yard begins to cry, and mommy and daddy farmer rush outside to glare at the scene as Hank backs away from the mail box and drives away.
Jeff’s books are available at WhiskeyPike.com & TurbanTan.com. His shorter works have appeared in Thirteen Pocket’s Seeding Meat series, Bellows, and will appear in an upcoming publication by Trifecta Publishing in NYC.
