The Land Begins to Heal

THE LAND BEGINS TO HEAL

  A Pastor Butch Gregory Short Story

  by Jamie Greening

  Copyright Jamie Greening 2014.

  All Rights Reserved

  Thank you for downloading this free story. If you like it, and want to read more about Pastor Butch Gregory as he faces the greatest challenge of his life, then we invite you to purchase Jamie Greening’s new thriller, the novel The Little Girl Waits. It is available in paperback, Kindle, and other eBook formats. For more information, visit www.thelittlegirlwaits.com

  Contents

  Start

  Middle

  End

  THE LAND BEGINS TO HEAL

  Pastor Butch Gregory ascended the feeble ladder into the darkness to seek the documents he needed. Reaching the top of the ladder and crawling through the hole, he felt for the light switch he was certain was mounted on one of the joists.

  He should have brought his flashlight, but his phone had a flashlight app.

  He reached into his pocket and within about half a minute the glow from the LED screen illuminated the darkness. Somehow his hand had been all around the switch, groping in the dark. He flipped it on and the single 60 watt bulb pushed dim light throughout the attic. The bulb dangled from a frayed cord which certainly did not meet current building codes. Butch saw his crystalline breath in front of his face. He carefully followed the plywood trail over the insulation, dodged joists and protruding nails and made his way to the storage bins which were on the far wall from the ladder. The bins were stacked directly over the chancel.

  He didn’t know for certain that the building fund was formed in 1978. He was still in middle school in 1978. Morgan Dempsey told him that was probably the year, but he also added it might be 1976, 77, 79 or 75.

  “It’s definitely not later than 1980,” Morgan told him. Fortunately for Butch the same giant plastic tub held all the meeting books for years 1962 to 1984. He squeezed the edges of the lid and pushed up and popped the top, causing dust to explode upward toward his face. He sneezed,then coughed and sneezed again. The tub was full of nearly identical three-ring binders, all black, with yellowing labels. Pastor Butch squinted in the faint light. Lying on top of the binders was the actual original articles of incorporation which proudly stated that Sydney Community Church in Sydney, Washington was legally incorporated in 1928.

  He didn’t have time for nostalgia until he found what he was looking for, so Butch fingered through the binders until he found 1976-1977.

  He double-checked, because it was hard to believe only two years’ worth of minutes were held in one binder. Looking through the pages though reminded him that back then the church held monthly business meetings with detailed financial reports and expense requests not to mention that the church voted on nearly everything. Butch shook his head as he thumbed through a request for money to buy a new coffee pot and then the blow by blow detailed account of the debate on the issue, the reasons for it and the reasons against it, what color, how many cups would it hold, where would it be put, who would control it, where would the coffee come from and then the final vote tally. The measure failed. No new coffee pot was bought in 1976.

  No wonder people left the church in droves—it must have been like watching C-SPAN.

  The next month’s report had what he was looking for. The minutes from the business meeting were surprisingly short, and there was very little discussion on the vote to start the building fund. The line simply read, “A proposal to create a building fund passed unanimously.” That was it. No policies were adopted and no stipulations on carpet color were made. He didn’t think there would be, but he needed proof, and now he had it. He didn’t think Murray was right when he said the fund was founded with a stipulation saying all carpet had to be crimson.

  Butch appropriated a two by four as a makeshift chair and thumbed through the book in the dim yellow light. A smile crept across his thin lips. He recognized many of the names mentioned in the pages: Mark Dunbar, Steve Glambet, Bonnie Straws and many more. “Ah,” he said aloud as he spotted a motion in the July business conference by Buddy Baker to supplement the youth trip to New Mexico out of the church budget. Pastor Butch buried Buddy Baker two winter’s previous. Some of the last names were familiar, but with different first names. Children of children who rose up to take their parents place of leadership. It was almost Levitical in nature.

  His fingers worked through the clear sheathed pages rapidly until November caught his attention. Stapled to the minutes was a crisply typed letter on grey stationery.

  Pastor Butch opened the end of the sheath and pulled out the minutes and the stapled letter.

  Dear Sydney Church,

  It is with great regret that I must resign my position as youth director, effective immediately. The recent crisis in my life, and the heartache that I still carry, prevent me from effectively continuing to represent our Lord and our church in a faithful way. I know that you are all praying for me, and for her, and I ask that you continue to do so. I hope, that as I am able to work through all of these present troubles, that I can still have a place at Sydney Community Church. It has been my spiritual home since I moved here, and I eagerly desire to continue being a part of it. I know that mistakes have been made, and sin has been committed; confession has been made forthright. Please forgive me of my iniquity, as the Lord has forgiven me.

  Sincerely,

  Ransom Rainey

  He read the letter twice more and each time his curiosity was piqued.

  Who was the ‘her,’ and who was Ransom Rainey? What happened? Why had he never heard of this?

  Butch thumbed through the rest of the minutes and saw, finally, the last action on the new business. The church voted unanimously to remove fellowship from Mr. Ransom Rainey in that November business meeting.

  Maybe it wasn’t like C-SPAN after all? The frost from his breath shimmered in the light and then disappeared. The light bulb flickered three times and then blinked out. Butch sat in the cold darkness. Faint light fled into the room from the ceiling entrance by the ladder, but the air grew heavy. So heavy was the air that Butch felt as if the weight of it made his back and shoulders bend. It was an oppressive, holy weight that lingered and moved around him. He was not frightened, but he definitely knew he was not alone in the loft. A knot began to form in his gut, and he knew something was afoot from above.

  The single bulb flashed back on and Butch sat still for a long time before he stirred himself and slowly climbed through the maze of lumber toward the attic door.

  Two hours later Butch was in his study but he couldn’t get the letter out of his mind. He brought the minutes down and had Mildred photocopy the relevant sheet regarding the stupid carpet squabble. He emailed it as a PDF to both of the interested parties knowing that would settle it, for now. The letter on the old stationery, however, haunted him. The knot which formed in his bowels tightened. Some people felt the Holy Spirit in their hands or in their eyes or a shiver up their spine. Pastor Butch always felt the Holy Spirit in his most unglamorous parts.

  He knew, though, when his master was speaking to him.

  He’d never heard the name Ransom Rainey before in his life; but he recognized some of the names who made reports at that same business meeting. Gerald Land is credited with making the motion to adjourn. Butch brought up his contacts in the iPhone and saw that Gerald’s work number was already there. He hit the call button.

  “Yes, is Dr. Land available for a phone call—I’m his friend from church, Butch Gregory—Could you tell him I called and if he gets a chance to call me back—Thanks.”

  He ended the call and looked out his window and prayed. “Lord Jesus,
I don’t know what is going on, but I can tell you want me to do something. Please help me find out what I need to find out, and then to do what I need to do. Jesus, something happened way back then, which I feel is still not fully solved, or resolved. Guide me in the way I should go. Amen.”

  After his brief prayer he worked on Sunday’s worship service and then read a bit from a new leadership book titledIf You’re Not Growing, Get Out Of Our Way written by a couple of young and restless Reformed pastors with goatees and un-tucked shirts. His critique of their message was interrupted when his phone rang.

  “Good afternoon Dr. Land, thanks for calling me back—No, I don’t need a cleaning and I don’t have a cavity, but thanks for asking. I actually have some church business to talk to you about. Can I drop by your office, say in a half hour—Great. See you