too cheap to pay a real interim minister.
“Look, Ed, I’m flattered—”
“’Course you are. Most churches wouldn’t trust a woman with this kind of thing. But we’re progressive at Church of the Shepherd.”
“Yes, I know, but—”
“Thought we’d better have an emergency meeting of the personnel committee tonight to iron out the details.”
I sigh. The church steamroller is fully engaged and running in high gear. “What time?” I’ll have to go and figure out how to head all this nonsense off at the pass.
There’s a moment of silence, and not the prayerful kind. “Um, well, Betsy, you don’t need to be there.”
“Doesn’t the senior minister serve on the personnel committee?”
“Well, yes, but you don’t need to worry about that. We’ll take care of everything.”
I’m quite sure they will. Just like my last church took care of everything, including running me out of town. “But I wouldn’t want to shirk my duties before they’ve even started, Ed. What time did you say the meeting was?”
“Um, seven. In the boardroom.”
“Great. I’ll see you then.”
For a second time I toss the phone down next to the pizza coupon. I will not answer it again today; I don’t care who calls.
So much for a pleasant Sunday afternoon. I’m avoiding my best friend, torturing myself with imagining exactly how Paris Hilton-like David’s date is, and I have only a few hours to prepare for escaping the personnel-committee steamroller.
I see now why God said we shouldn’t work on the Sabbath. That would leave us at least one day a week when we couldn’t ruin our lives.
The boardroom at Church of the Shepherd is aptly named, though not correctly spelled. It should be b-o-r-e-d. A heavy mahogany conference table, harvest gold upholstered chairs, and generic framed artwork provide the perfect setting for the long-winded, self-aggrandizing speeches that consume most of the oxygen in the room.
I’m late for the meeting, thanks to a last-minute panic over pantyhose. I ran my last pair of taupe—a color that would appall the sales assistant at Oh Là Là!—which necessitated a mad dash to CVS. By the time I arrive at church, looking smartly professional and completely un-madeover in my aforementioned navy suit and crisp white blouse, the personnel committee has assembled. Hunched over the conference table, they remind me of a row of buzzards on a dying tree branch.
They’ve also occupied all the chairs, leaving me with no place to perch.
“We’ve already started,” Ed informs me as I wrangle a straight-backed chair from the reception area through the doorway. I sink into it and gasp when the pointed corner of the conference table catches me squarely in the midsection.
“As I was saying—” Edna Tompkins casts me her customary look of disdain while completely ignoring her twin brother. She gets away with this behavior because it’s an open secret that she’s the largestcontributor to the church’s budget, even though that information is technically kept in confidence. Even from the pastors.
Edna looks around the table like Queen Elizabeth addressing her household staff. “I feel it is a mistake to ask Reverend Blessing to take on the role of senior pastor.”
Like one of Pavlov’s conditioned dogs, I feel my stomach sink and beads of sweat break out along my forehead at the prospect of conflict. I arrived prepared to inform the committee I have no interest in becoming the interim senior minister. But this time, despite the sweat and the sinking stomach, Mrs. Tompkins’s clear disdain for my ministry raises my hackles. Maybe it’s my frustration with my feelings for David. Maybe it’s the chemicals from the makeover. Or maybe I’ve just finally had enough of these kinds of meetings.
“In what way, Mrs. Tompkins, would that be a mistake?”
The other committee members shoot me a nervous glance. They know that the financial consequences of standing up to Edna could be
“Look, Ed, I’m flattered—”
“’Course you are. Most churches wouldn’t trust a woman with this kind of thing. But we’re progressive at Church of the Shepherd.”
“Yes, I know, but—”
“Thought we’d better have an emergency meeting of the personnel committee tonight to iron out the details.”
I sigh. The church steamroller is fully engaged and running in high gear. “What time?” I’ll have to go and figure out how to head all this nonsense off at the pass.
There’s a moment of silence, and not the prayerful kind. “Um, well, Betsy, you don’t need to be there.”
“Doesn’t the senior minister serve on the personnel committee?”
“Well, yes, but you don’t need to worry about that. We’ll take care of everything.”
I’m quite sure they will. Just like my last church took care of everything, including running me out of town. “But I wouldn’t want to shirk my duties before they’ve even started, Ed. What time did you say the meeting was?”
“Um, seven. In the boardroom.”
“Great. I’ll see you then.”
For a second time I toss the phone down next to the pizza coupon. I will not answer it again today; I don’t care who calls.
So much for a pleasant Sunday afternoon. I’m avoiding my best friend, torturing myself with imagining exactly how Paris Hilton-like David’s date is, and I have only a few hours to prepare for escaping the personnel-committee steamroller.
I see now why God said we shouldn’t work on the Sabbath. That would leave us at least one day a week when we couldn’t ruin our lives.
The boardroom at Church of the Shepherd is aptly named, though not correctly spelled. It should be b-o-r-e-d. A heavy mahogany conference table, harvest gold upholstered chairs, and generic framed artwork provide the perfect setting for the long-winded, self-aggrandizing speeches that consume most of the oxygen in the room.
I’m late for the meeting, thanks to a last-minute panic over pantyhose. I ran my last pair of taupe—a color that would appall the sales assistant at Oh Là Là!—which necessitated a mad dash to CVS. By the time I arrive at church, looking smartly professional and completely un-madeover in my aforementioned navy suit and crisp white blouse, the personnel committee has assembled. Hunched over the conference table, they remind me of a row of buzzards on a dying tree branch.
They’ve also occupied all the chairs, leaving me with no place to perch.
“We’ve already started,” Ed informs me as I wrangle a straight-backed chair from the reception area through the doorway. I sink into it and gasp when the pointed corner of the conference table catches me squarely in the midsection.
“As I was saying—” Edna Tompkins casts me her customary look of disdain while completely ignoring her twin brother. She gets away with this behavior because it’s an open secret that she’s the largestcontributor to the church’s budget, even though that information is technically kept in confidence. Even from the pastors.
Edna looks around the table like Queen Elizabeth addressing her household staff. “I feel it is a mistake to ask Reverend Blessing to take on the role of senior pastor.”
Like one of Pavlov’s conditioned dogs, I feel my stomach sink and beads of sweat break out along my forehead at the prospect of conflict. I arrived prepared to inform the committee I have no interest in becoming the interim senior minister. But this time, despite the sweat and the sinking stomach, Mrs. Tompkins’s clear disdain for my ministry raises my hackles. Maybe it’s my frustration with my feelings for David. Maybe it’s the chemicals from the makeover. Or maybe I’ve just finally had enough of these kinds of meetings.
“In what way, Mrs. Tompkins, would that be a mistake?”
The other committee members shoot me a nervous glance. They know that the financial consequences of standing up to Edna could be
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