Page 2 of Preacher Man
I didn’t respond to that.Just smiled tightly and looked anywhere but at her.The truth was, she reminded me of a dozen women I’d known growing up.Tough, chatty, and able to smell bullshit from a hundred paces.If I told her I was the new preacher, she’d probably have my life story dissected and catalogued before she handed me a ketchup packet.
A few minutes later, she slid the bag across the counter.“Here ya go.Burger’s hot, Coke’s cold.Just like me.”
I let out a weak laugh and reached for my wallet.
She leaned closer as I paid.“Careful with that one,” she said under her breath, eyes flicking toward the window.“The real crazy ones always wear crosses.”
I gave a small, polite chuckle, hoping it passed for ignorance.Didn’t feel like kicking off my first day with a confession to a stranger.
“Thanks,” I said, and booked it out the door like it might slam shut behind me and trap me in a Hallmark movie.
Brother Thomas was pacing next to a car that looked like it had rolled straight off the set of Jesus and the Fast & the Furious.It was a dented white Impala with chrome bumpers and a flurry of bumper stickers slapped on the back like protest signs at a revival.Honk if you love Jesus.God said it, I believe it, that settles it.My boss is a Jewish carpenter.
He glanced up when he saw me, sighed like I’d kept him waiting an hour instead of five minutes, and gestured impatiently.“Follow me.”
Then he got in the car, cranked the engine with a sound like the Second Coming trying to start up, and peeled off down the street.
I stared after him, then looked at my car, which was more rust than paint, sighed, and climbed in.
“Here we go,” I muttered, switching the ignition and hearing the engine wheeze like it was already tired of this assignment.
I followed the Impala down the sun-drenched street, past the flower baskets and the bakery and the frozen-in-time charm that made my stomach twist.I’d hoped for a soft landing.What I’d gotten was a town straight out of a storybook, and I’d never been much for fairy tales.
Not anymore.
* * *
I followed Brother Thomas as he made a sharp right off the smooth pavement onto a bumpy dirt road, the tires of his ancient Dodge kicking up a little dust cloud behind him.The road was patchy—sand, gravel, and stubborn weeds cracking through the surface—like someone had forgotten to care for it in years.
After a minute, the small brick church came into view.It wasn’t just a sanctuary.It had a few other attached rooms, probably for meetings or Sunday school, all pressed close, like they were holding on for dear life.The brick was weathered, streaked with age, but the faded wooden sign swinging gently in the breeze made it clear:First Light Fellowship of Meadowgrove.
Something flickered in my chest.A tiny spark of hope, maybe.Hopefully, this place wouldn’t be like every other run-down church I’d landed in, stuck in some drafty shack.Maybe the parsonage would be decent.
Then I spotted it.
About a hundred yards past the church sat a single-wide trailer, crusted with peeling paint and dust like it had been parked and forgotten decades ago.The windows were grimy, the steps to the porch rusty and sagging, and the “yard” was mostly sand, gravel, and dead grass.My stomach sank like a stone.
I should be focusing on the Word, not the sad trailer I was about to live in.
Brother Thomas’s car rolled up and stopped in front of the trailer.I parked beside him.He stepped out and handed me a jangling set of keys.One set for the church, and one for the trailer.The metal felt cold and heavier than it should.
“I can’t wait to hear you preach on Sunday,” he said, like he was trying to will me into believing it.
Then, just like that, he climbed back in his Impala, fired it up with a growl, and peeled away down the dirt road, leaving me standing alone by that trailer, the weight of what I’d agreed to pressing down hard.
The quiet stretched out around me, broken only by the gravel underfoot and the low hum of distant cicadas.
I popped the trunk and grabbed my luggage.Two scuffed suitcases and a busted garment bag that had seen too many bad Sundays.Being a preacher didn’t exactly come with a 401k or airline miles.It paid just enough so my clothes looked presentable from the pulpit and I could afford to buy the occasional book.
I shut the trunk and stood there for a second, staring at the trailer like it might spontaneously combust and save me the trouble.
Then I sighed and trudged up the steps that creaked like arthritic bones, unlocked the flimsy front door, and stepped inside.
Lord have mercy.
It smelled like mildew, and something fried, maybe onions, maybe despair.The carpet squished faintly under my shoes, and the blinds were half-bent, yellowed with time and God knew what else.The little kitchen table beside the stove was covered in dust and sticky rings, like someone had left behind generations of forgotten drinks.A lonely ceiling fan turned slowly overhead, clicking on every revolution like it was counting down to my inevitable breakdown.
I wanted to sit, eat my burger, pretend like this wasn’t my life.
