The Welcome Committee of Butternut Creek by Jane Myers Perrine Page B
Authors: Jane Myers Perrine
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out over the next years, the Widows loved a dare, rejoiced in achieving the impossible.
Only a few minutes after the Widows left, Adam wondered about Miss Birdie. Mercedes presented herself as she was: friendly and easy to get along with.
But he hadn’t met anyone like Miss Birdie before. Oh, every church had a kitchen lady, the woman in charge of nearly everything including meal preparation and service and keeping the congregation in line. Miss Birdie was different, though, stronger than most but also caring and concerned about the flock. How did a person combine her judgmental personality with a heart that had organized the furniture purchase and sent her minister to call on an amputee?
He wished he understood her better. How can I minister to her if I don’t know her? he reflected.
Of course it could be she didn’t care if he ministered to her or not, as long as he did what she expected.
The church administration professor at the seminary had told the class there were members of a congregation, often a clan, who wanted to own the minister, who hoped to be the only family he ate Christmas dinner with, who expected the minister to attend every family gathering including the birth of a nephew or grandchild. Adam didn’t think Miss Birdie fell into that category.
The professor had explained there was a second group who wanted to be the only ones the minister listened to, to control the church by controlling the pastor. He’d said ministers should do everything possible to avoid that situation.
The professor had never met Miss Birdie.
Chapter Four
R ockets exploded around Sam Peterson. Amid the screams of the wounded, officers barked directions as mortar shells screamed toward them. Over the rocky landscape hung the acrid smell of ammo and war and the coppery stench of blood. Gunfire rained down on them from the surrounding hills.
He wished the Taliban didn’t love hanging out in obscure caves.
“Incoming,” Gunny shouted.
“Gunny, we need suppressive fire.” Sam pointed west. “Where the hell is the second squad?”
Reacting with the instinct of long training and months in Afghanistan, Sam lifted his M4 to answer the barrage. As the suppressive fire began, he shouted to his radio operator, “We need close air support now and—”
Before he could finish the sentence, a second mortar impacted, driving Sam’s face into the dirt. A blast of pain punched him, burning through flesh and bones and nerves.
He reached for his leg. It wasn’t there.
His leg had been blown off and he lay alone and bleeding out on the hard surface made slick with his blood. He shouted to his best friend Morty for help, but Morty stretched out next to him, motionless, blood pooling around his head and his eyes staring into the darkness as the battle continued to rage.
“Medic!” Sam yelled, but no one came. Despite pain that nearly knocked him out, he reached for his first-aid kit and grabbed a tourniquet. Fighting against the throbbing and a darkness that threatened to envelop him, he wrapped the nylon strip around his thigh and tightened it with clumsy fingers slick with blood, turning the plastic grip until the flow stopped.
That finished, he clenched his fists and forced himself to breathe, to pull air in and out of gasping lungs. He lay alone in the dark and the throbbing anguish, waiting for death in a foreign country. With the last bit of strength he possessed, he reached out and put his hand on Morty’s shoulder.
When the din grew louder, his eyes flew open. For a moment, he floated, caught between the pandemonium of war and the pounding noise of wherever he’d awakened. Above him, Sam saw not a black sky pierced with the flashes and trails of rockets and mortar fire but a ceiling covered with that ugly white popcorn stuff. He took a deep breath. Fresh, clean air. He’d had that nightmare again and hoped Morty didn’t die at the end. He always did. It destroyed Sam every time.
He wasn’t in Afghanistan.
Only a few minutes after the Widows left, Adam wondered about Miss Birdie. Mercedes presented herself as she was: friendly and easy to get along with.
But he hadn’t met anyone like Miss Birdie before. Oh, every church had a kitchen lady, the woman in charge of nearly everything including meal preparation and service and keeping the congregation in line. Miss Birdie was different, though, stronger than most but also caring and concerned about the flock. How did a person combine her judgmental personality with a heart that had organized the furniture purchase and sent her minister to call on an amputee?
He wished he understood her better. How can I minister to her if I don’t know her? he reflected.
Of course it could be she didn’t care if he ministered to her or not, as long as he did what she expected.
The church administration professor at the seminary had told the class there were members of a congregation, often a clan, who wanted to own the minister, who hoped to be the only family he ate Christmas dinner with, who expected the minister to attend every family gathering including the birth of a nephew or grandchild. Adam didn’t think Miss Birdie fell into that category.
The professor had explained there was a second group who wanted to be the only ones the minister listened to, to control the church by controlling the pastor. He’d said ministers should do everything possible to avoid that situation.
The professor had never met Miss Birdie.
Chapter Four
R ockets exploded around Sam Peterson. Amid the screams of the wounded, officers barked directions as mortar shells screamed toward them. Over the rocky landscape hung the acrid smell of ammo and war and the coppery stench of blood. Gunfire rained down on them from the surrounding hills.
He wished the Taliban didn’t love hanging out in obscure caves.
“Incoming,” Gunny shouted.
“Gunny, we need suppressive fire.” Sam pointed west. “Where the hell is the second squad?”
Reacting with the instinct of long training and months in Afghanistan, Sam lifted his M4 to answer the barrage. As the suppressive fire began, he shouted to his radio operator, “We need close air support now and—”
Before he could finish the sentence, a second mortar impacted, driving Sam’s face into the dirt. A blast of pain punched him, burning through flesh and bones and nerves.
He reached for his leg. It wasn’t there.
His leg had been blown off and he lay alone and bleeding out on the hard surface made slick with his blood. He shouted to his best friend Morty for help, but Morty stretched out next to him, motionless, blood pooling around his head and his eyes staring into the darkness as the battle continued to rage.
“Medic!” Sam yelled, but no one came. Despite pain that nearly knocked him out, he reached for his first-aid kit and grabbed a tourniquet. Fighting against the throbbing and a darkness that threatened to envelop him, he wrapped the nylon strip around his thigh and tightened it with clumsy fingers slick with blood, turning the plastic grip until the flow stopped.
That finished, he clenched his fists and forced himself to breathe, to pull air in and out of gasping lungs. He lay alone in the dark and the throbbing anguish, waiting for death in a foreign country. With the last bit of strength he possessed, he reached out and put his hand on Morty’s shoulder.
When the din grew louder, his eyes flew open. For a moment, he floated, caught between the pandemonium of war and the pounding noise of wherever he’d awakened. Above him, Sam saw not a black sky pierced with the flashes and trails of rockets and mortar fire but a ceiling covered with that ugly white popcorn stuff. He took a deep breath. Fresh, clean air. He’d had that nightmare again and hoped Morty didn’t die at the end. He always did. It destroyed Sam every time.
He wasn’t in Afghanistan.
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