And the Shofar Blew (47 page)

Alone in the courtyard, Samuel continued to plead before the throne of heaven.
How long, O Lord, how long must I bear this sorrow? I have known
and done Your will for over seventy years, but I know men, too, and it will take
the blasting of a shofar to make Paul stop and listen. Lord, please. Make him
aware of the pain he’s caused. Bring him to account for it. Turn him, Lord, turn
him so profoundly, there will be no turning back for him. So profoundly that the
change in him will bring light to others.

Paul cried in pain as hot coffee splashed over his right leg. Jamming on the brakes, he gripped the wheel with both hands and turned sharply to avoid running over the jackrabbit in the road ahead of him. Horns blasted. He heard a loud screech, felt the car swing into a hard circle. Terrified, he tried to compensate and screamed as a semi barely missed plowing into his door.

The sound of the horn was in back of him, in front, bearing down on him long and loud. He was going to die! He was going to die!

I don’t understand, Lord,
Samuel prayed.
How could I have been so wrong
about a man? I thought I was doing Your will in calling Paul Hudson to
Centerville Christian. But I have watched him go in like a wolf among Your
sheep, leading them astray, filling them with false teaching and groundless hope.
Or is he the lost lamb? Oh, God, I don’t know anymore. How I wish Your voice
was as loud as that ancient shofar so that I could hear and know what You want
me to do.

You know.

Tears rolled down his cheeks.

Paul skidded off the road. Enveloped in a cloud of dust, he came to a dead stop, heart pounding so hard he thought he’d pass out. Still gripping the wheel, he shook, adrenaline roaring in his veins. He got his breath back, shoved the gearshift into Park, and put his head against the steering wheel.

Someone tapped on the window. “Mister! You okay?”

No, he wasn’t. He was anything but okay. He raised his hand and nodded without looking at the stranger.

“Do you need a tow truck?”

How many others had been hurt in his attempt to miss hitting a jackrabbit?

He pressed a button and lowered the window enough to ask if anyone was hurt.

The man looked back. “No one that I can see. But cars are stacking up. My truck’s blocking one lane. I’d better get rolling. Are you sure you’re okay? I can call in for help.”

“Yeah, I’m okay.”

“Man, someone’s watching out for you. That’s all I can say. Another split second and I would’ve hit you head-on with my semi. What made you swerve like that?”

“Instinct, I guess. Something ran across the road.”

The trucker said a couple of choice words and ran back to his vehicle. He jumped up, slammed the door. The truck roared to life, ground into gear. The air horn blasted. The truck was so close Paul felt he was being melted by the noise. The driver brought the truck around and back onto the high-way, heading north. A dozen cars followed, all slowing as each driver took a good long look at Paul.

He was too shaken to get back on the road yet. So he sat, waiting for his heart to slow down. He saw his wedding picture shattered on the floor below the passenger seat. Eunice gazed up at him—adoring, trusting—through broken glass. And it hit him then like a blow in his stomach what he had done to her, what he had done to their marriage.

Oh, God . . .

He’d almost killed himself in the effort to miss a jackrabbit running across the road, but he’d been running over Eunice for years.

Every word Paul’s mother had said sank in and took hold, shaking the foundations of his lifework.
I’ve lost her. I’ve lost Euny
.

All his life, Paul had wanted to be like his father. And now he had succeeded, realizing much too late that his earthly father was not a man to be emulated. He had become like his father, all right—cheating on his wife, cheating on his Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. He’d become good at using the church to fan his pride and build his own empire. He’d served the same idols his father had: ambition and arrogance. Oh, he’d made sacrifices—plenty of them. His dreams, his integrity, his restraint, his moral fiber and character. Those he should’ve been protecting, he’d abandoned—faithful friends like Samuel and Abby Mason, Stephen Decker, and a dozen others before he cast away his own son and wife. Or had he cast them off first?

They’d all tried to reach him. They’d all tried to warn him. But he’d been too full of pride, too full of himself to listen. Oh, he knew what he was doing, he thought. He was building a church, wasn’t he? He was working for the Lord, wasn’t he? And that justified everything, didn’t it?

Oh, God, oh, Jesus . . .

How dare he even utter the name?

When Paul arrived home, there were fifteen messages on his answering machine. He prayed as he listened to each, but there wasn’t a call from Eunice. All had to do with church business, including a reminder that he didn’t have to worry about Sunday. He had scheduled a well-known ecumenical speaker. Well, that was a relief, anyway.

The last message was from Sheila. “I think Reka is the one who told Eunice to come to the office.” She called her a foul name. “If you don’t fire her, you’re an idiot. I’m sorry about what I said to you in the office. I think you can understand I was upset. I do love you, but I think we both know it’s over. I’m calling from Palm Springs. Rob is going to fly here on the way home from Florida. I haven’t told him anything. I have no intention of telling him. I just thought this was a good idea for damage control. If any rumors arise, they’ll die quick enough when I come home with a nice tan and my hubby on my arm. You just have to deal with Eunice—”

He punched the Delete button.
Deal with Eunice.
Isn’t that what he’d been doing for the last ten years? He looked at the notes, schedules, and programs on his desk, a dozen neatly laid out. He picked up the class schedule and read down the list: Power Praying: How to Get God to Answer; Embracing the Imposter Within: Making Friends with Your Past; Improving Your Self-Image; Alternate Lifestyles: A Course in Loving Your Neighbor; Yoga: Exercise to Inspire Meditation. One of the deacons’ wives was holding a party on finding peace in the midst of storms through aromatherapy. He felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck. Sheila wasn’t the problem. She was just the most recent in a long line of sins he’d been committing over the years. The mountainous weight of them pressed down on him until he could hardly breathe.

How do I get out from under this? How do I get back on the road? Oh, Jesus,
help me! How did I ever get so far off track in the first place?

Who do you say that I am?

Paul held his head and wept. He’d been behaving worse than an unbeliever.

He got up from his chair and went down on his knees. He hadn’t prayed like this since his first years serving the Lord at Mountain High.

Oh, Lord my God, Jesus, Savior and Redeemer, be kind to me according to
Your mercy and grace. Cancel out my sins. Jesus, let the blood You shed for me
wash me clean again.

What one believes about God determines what one does.
Who had said that to him? Eunice? Samuel? His mother?
Oh, Lord, I’ve sinned against You.

He lay flat, face to the floor.
I’ve done what is evil in Your sight, all the
while convincing myself I was serving You. Lord, have mercy on me! Let me
hear Your Word in joy again. Wipe away my sins. Give me a new heart and
mind, a new spirit and steadfast faith. Oh, God, don’t cast me out into the
darkness, but restore my soul.
He sobbed.
Let me be like a child again. Let me
be Your child.

It was over an hour before he rose to his feet, weary, depressed. He used to feel God’s presence when he prayed. Now, he felt alone and lost. He wanted to talk with his mother about it, but she wanted nothing to do with him until he made things right with Eunice.

He didn’t want to think about Eunice. He didn’t want to think about the pain he’d caused her or what she must be feeling right now. But he was remembering Scripture. It was filling his mind, bringing him up short, taking him back, pointing the way.

He needed to make amends with Eunice before he could even hope God would turn an ear to his prayers.
A good wife is a gift from God.
And what had he done with his gift? He’d already asked God’s forgiveness and knew the Lord kept His Word, kept His promises. But he needed to find his wife and beg for her forgiveness now, too.

Where would she go? Did she have money to eat or rent a room? He winced as he remembered how he’d taken away her suitcase and keys, thinking that would be enough to keep her in the house, silent and waiting like a little mouse for the cat to come home. She’d fled. Could he blame her? What had she learned to expect from him but rationalization and justification for his behavior? Worse, he had made her the scapegoat.

Did she have any money other than what had been in her purse? How was she going to get by?

She would’ve had to use a credit card!

Paul took out his wallet and looked through his cards. He only carried two and used them strictly for business, luncheons at the club, new suits, and books. Eunice carried a different card. Which one? He wasn’t sure. She paid their monthly bills, except for the ones he hadn’t wanted her to see. He went into the master bedroom and opened her desk drawer. In front were bills, neatly organized by due date. He took out two and picked up the telephone.

It took him almost an hour to find out the most recent transactions on both credit cards. An airline ticket to Philadelphia. A rental car, gasoline, and a motel.
Thank You, blessed Jesus. Oh, Father, protect her!

He took her suitcase out of the trunk of his car. Returning to the bed-room, he dumped everything out on the bed. He looked at the hangers and pictures, the small jewelry box, every item representing someone who’d loved her, someone she’d been able to trust. Heart in his throat, he hung up her clothes, put the picture back on the wall, and tucked the jewelry box back into her drawer. Then he packed—for both of them.

On his way to the Sacramento airport, he used his cell phone to call one of the newer associates. He’d been in conflict with John Deerman since he hired him. Paul understood why now. John had clung to the gospel. He taught Scripture. His classes had been small, too small in Paul’s opinion. So he had tried to use John elsewhere, but John had held his ground. One of the things on Paul’s personal agenda had been to have Deerman dismissed. Now he saw him as a man like Joseph Wheeler, the man who had taken over his father’s pulpit.

Paul told John he wouldn’t be in church on Sunday. He needed to make a trip. He didn’t give his reasons. “Pray for me, would you, John? Pray hard.”

“What’s happened to you, Paul?”

“I’m on the Damascus road. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes, Paul. Praise the Lord!”