Stained Glass Anonymous

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Chapter One:

Welcome to Heck (Because We Don’t Say Hell)

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Church Survival Tip:

Don’t mention the word “change” in church. Ever. 

 

You can change things, but don’t come right out and say it. It’s all in the wording. For example: “We’re going to replace the carpet because it’s the same one we’ve had for eighty years, and I think that dark spot up front is a vomit stain.” 

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This is wrong, and the churchgoer’s response will be “but we can’t replace it BECAUSE it’s been there for eighty years. Somebody important might have walked on it, and that vomit stain is from my granddaddy when he was a boy. This church should be proud of the fact that my granddaddy chose to leave the memory of his lunch here!”

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This is the correct way to word it: “You really think the carpet looks different? You say it used to be red? Isn’t that the funniest thing. Maybe it’s the light...”

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Our ancient Suburban rolls to a stop in front of a white church. Dad’s face breaks into a smile as he pulls the keys out of the ignition and throws open the driver’s side door. 

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“This is it,” he exclaims, dashing my hopes that we were just stopping to ask for directions.

 

Mom, Daniel, and I remain seated. It’s going to take a moment for us to be able to close our wide-open mouths, let alone climb out of the car. Right now, the backseat feels a bit like the glass at a zoo, offering protection from the strange and untamed exhibit in front of me.

 

“When someone sues for falling through a rotted floorboard, does the church pay or do we have to as the pastor’s family?” My brother, Daniel, asks as we finally find the courage to climb out of the car and U-Haul combo we’ve been driving for the past three days. 

 

Mom gives Daniel the universal “mom-look.” 

 

“Be supportive,” Mom whispers as we make our way up the cracked cement walkway. Dad’s already inside; I’m not certain I want to follow. This building may represent Dad’s dream, but to me it just represents the friends and childhood home I had to leave behind. I never imagined my cubicle-working father would one day announce to the family that he was going to seminary to become a pastor, but here we are.

 

I walk slowly up the front steps and enter the very traditional white sanctuary. Daniel throws his arms out to the side like he’s pretending to be an airplane and calls over to me, “You better do the same in case the floor gives. That way we can catch ourselves.” 

 

I ignore him. 

 

“It smells,” I say, my voice echoing in the empty room. 

 

Dad is still sporting a toothy smile; I can tell he can’t wait to get started. “It smells like history and humanity,” Dad replies, ever the optimist. For once his excitement isn’t contagious. The mold in here, however, probably is.

 

“I was thinking it smelled more like someone died in here.”

 

“History, humanity, death, all the same,” Daniel says gleefully. 

 

Mom grabs his collar and pulls him off to the side. Daniel is twelve and growing faster than Mom can shop for new pants for him. We keep waiting for his social skills to come in with his height, but they have yet to arrive.

 

Dad begins to give us a tour of the church. There are two offices, a tiny library, a sitting room, a kitchen, Sunday school rooms and, of course, the sanctuary. One word sums it up: old. Old furniture, old wallpaper, old carpet, old water stains, and old spiderwebs in the corners. 

 

“It’s a bit of a fixer-upper,” Mom says slowly.

 

“More like a ‘tearer-downer,’” I whisper to Daniel. He snickers.

 

“There’s a lot of potential though,” Mom finishes while she glances around the foyer. The only sign of life is a potted plant in the corner. And it’s fake, so it isn’t exactly a sign of life. I can tell Mom is trying hard to remain positive, but her face looks a bit shell-shocked. I can only imagine what mine looks like.

 

“Hey, what’s with all the worry I see in everyone’s eyes?” Dad turns around to face us. “We knew this wasn’t going to be easy when we signed on. It’s ministry; it’s not supposed to be easy. Now, we are here to serve, work hard, and advance God’s kingdom.” He finishes his pep talk and leans back against the wall with his arms crossed. As if planned, part of the chair-rail falls off as he does so.

 

Dad just ignores it and pushes himself upright. “Hey princess, ready to see where we’re going to live?” Dad puts his arm around my shoulder and guides me toward the door. 

 

I try to muster up some excitement. Dad’s right; we are here to serve people, and I don’t want to make him feel bad about pursuing his dream.

 

Plus, I’m kind of skating on thin ice after all my complaining on the drive out here. The phrases “grounded” and “no tv privileges” have both been tossed around. If I’m going to survive Blink-and-you-miss-it-boro, I’m going to need entertainment.

 

“You said our new backyard is great, right?”

 

“Absolutely. It’s got a big porch and almost two acres of land. Maybe we can finally plant that vegetable garden we’ve always talked about.” 

We all walk out the front door of the church and head toward the parsonage. It’s the one thing that has actually excited me about moving here.  

 

Well, “excited” might be an exaggeration, but at least it’s the one thing that hasn’t filled me with dread. Dad told me it’s a lot bigger than our last house, and my new room has a walk-in closet. My shoes will be very pleased to no longer live in a large, plastic bin.

 

I’m beginning to feel the tiniest bit better about the whole situation as we walk up the front steps. It’s the first of September, and the day is warm. Twin oaks charmingly frame the house, promising to make an enchanting picture when the leaves change colors. The white cape house is over two-hundred years old and looks beautiful on the outside. I spot a chimney. 

 

“Oooo, it’s got a fireplace!” I say. 

 

Mom smiles, looking relieved that something positive finally came out of my mouth. “Think about when it snows,” she replies. “We can snuggle in front of it while hot chocolate-ing.”

 

She has a thing for turning nouns into verbs. I call them Nerbs. It’s starting to rub off on me which is a little scary.

 

Dad fishes the keys to the house out of his pocket. He tries to swing the front door open, but it moves only about a foot before stopping. 

 

“Huh,” is Dad’s eloquent response. He pushes harder, and the door begins to inch open. Daniel jumps up beside him and pushes as well. Together they are able to open the door. We all just stop and stare. The hallway and kitchen are filled floor to ceiling with, with…stuff. There is no better way to describe it.

 

Boxes, clothes, bags of trash, broken furniture…stuff. And lots of it.

 

We manage to wedge our way inside and look around in horror. It isn’t just in the hallway. It’s everywhere. EVERYWHERE, people!

 

“Was it like this when you saw it before?” I ask when I can finally form a cogent sentence. We attempt to walk around the house, but it’s not an easy feat.

 

“I never went inside,” Dad admits sheepishly. “The other pastor was still living here up until a few days ago.”

 

“Or maybe he still is. We’d never be able to tell if he’s still here or not,” Daniel adds unhelpfully. 

 

Wow, that’s the stuff nightmares are made of.

 

“Just try and keep your eyes up. The crown molding is pretty,” Mom says, apparently seeing a need to mimic that airhead Pollyanna. I’d rather a little more Eeyore at the moment, thank you very much.

 

I manage to mountain-climb the stairs and hefty bags in an attempt to find where my room will be. Unfortunately, it looks much the same as the rest of the house: dirty and filled with junk. I try not to cry as I look for a place to sit down. I manage to wedge myself onto the window ledge and pull out the green notebook I always have with me. I call it my “Future Bestseller Fodder,” or FBF for short. I begin scribbling in it furiously. I’ll give you a hint: I’m not filling it with happy prompts. 

 

Mom comes in and gives me a look of pity. “I’m sorry. I know we’ve asked a lot of you and Daniel, and this is just the icing on the cake, isn’t it?” 

 

I snort. Yeah, that’s kind of an understatement.

 

“Why couldn’t Dad wait until after I was done with high school to have his midlife crisis?”

 

“Midlife crisis? Is that what you see this as?” 

 

I’m silent for a moment as I draw stars in the dust on the window. “No,” I sigh reluctantly. “I guess I don’t. Everything just changed so fast.” 

Mom wades through a pile of metal hangers to come hug me. She says nothing for a moment, and the room is filled with the sound of the still-vibrating hangers.

 

“Everything changed fast for me too. If you had told me five years ago that I would be a pastor’s wife, I would have laughed in your face. But God knew that this would happen all along. I think your dad has finally found what he is meant to do. He has supported us in everything, and this is our chance to support him.” 

 

I lean my head against her and close my eyes. Mom kisses the top of my head and then taps my notebook with her finger. 

 

“What a great experience to inspire a new story or maybe a blog. I’ve always thought you would make a great blogger,” she says, referencing my not-so-secret dream to be a writer. 

 

I glance back down at the notebook in my hands. Mom continues on.

 

“And hey, once we get started, I bet we’re going to love being part of a pastor’s family. Think of the sweet church ladies who you always loved at our old church, big potluck suppers, and all the beautiful Christian people we’re going to meet.”

 

Freeze frame. 

 

Cue laughter. 

 

We had no idea what we were getting into.