The Cord
Stephen W. Robbins
The Cord
Copyright © 2015 Stephen W. Robbins. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions. Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.
Resource Publications
An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers
199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3
Eugene, OR 97401
www.wipfandstock.com
ISBN 13: 978-1-4982-2963-0
EISBN 13: 978-1-4982-2964-7
Manufactured in the U.S.A.
Unless otherwise identified, all Scripture quotations in this publication are taken from the New American Standard Bible (NASB), © The Lockman Foundation 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977.
One Day! Hymn written by J. Wilbur Chapman in 1910. (Public Domain)
All Hail the Power of Jesus’ Name! Hymn written by Edward Perronet in 1780. (Public Domain)
To Ruth
My flourishing companion on the Way
Acknowledgements
A wise person (one with a long view of the good life) advised people over fifty years old to try something completely new. For me to enter the world of fiction fulfills this midlife benchmark. Outside of long-ago classroom required reading, I can count on one hand the novels I have read. Though my pastoral calling and interests bury me deep in non-fiction, the power of story has diffused a quickening ray in the basement of libraries filled with commentaries, dictionaries, and journals.
I want to thank my family for keeping me on track and cheering me on throughout this novel adventure. Ruth, Elizabeth, and Stephen, thank you for holding my hand as I stumbled into creative writing, a land that you are at home and flourish in. At your request, I do acknowledge that all characters in this story are purely fictitious, and any resemblance is purely coincidental. (As Elizabeth avowed, “Grandma, I am not Anne!”)
I also want to thank the Sparks family and Lori Shanebeck for their constructive encouragement, and Terri Garcia, Stephanie Townsend, Chris Acosta, and my mom (Beverly Robbins) for proofreading earlier drafts of The Cord. Your fresh eyes enhanced the story and saved me much embarrassment. My heartfelt gratitude goes out to Pastors Joel Fairley and Paul Langford. Your ruthless insistence that I finish the story gave me strength to write the hardest line in the book. Thank you!
1
“Beautiful sermon, Pastor.”
Pastor Donovan smiled as he heard this and the other customary tributes from his parishioners as they filed out after the service. Week after week he shook their hands in the foyer as they exited through the double doors out to their cars and into their worlds. And week after week he heard the same praise. “Great sermon, Pastor.” “You really gave us something to think about.” “I really enjoyed your sermon.” And, of course, Brother Bob’s “Boy, you really hit a homerun today, Pastor.”
Smiling on the outside, Pastor Donovan doubted every word. Homerun? Really? A foul ball, maybe. A nagging voice inside kept asking, “Is this making any difference? Do these people ever go home changed?”
“Pastor, may I speak to you when you’re done here?”
“Of course,” said Pastor Donovan instinctively with a smile. Immediately, though, questions bounced around in his head. Why does this man, a visitor, want to talk? Is he going to ambush me with a theological litmus test? Does he want to volunteer to be a leader, teach a class, or sing a solo? Ever since the infamous oboe-playing guest who punctuated the congregational worship with an impromptu concert, daunting flashbacks of visitors offering their “gifts” had caused Pastor Donovan’s heart to skip beats.
When the last parishioner finally left, Pastor Donovan reassured his wife and two kids as they stood by the family car, “I’ll only be a few minutes.” He then walked to the man waiting and said in his best pastoral voice, “How may I help you?”
“Actually, Pastor, I want to help you.”
Pastor Donovan readied himself. The well-rehearsed “oboe-player” speech bounced through his head, but he resisted dismissing the man and postured himself to listen. “Please forgive me, but I don’t recall ever meeting you. What is your name?”
“My name is George Carlson. I do research at SarkiSystems. That’s actually what I want to talk to you about. But before I do, may we sit down?”
“Sure,” acquiesced Pastor Donovan as he gestured toward the back pew of the sanctuary.
“Before I explain how I might help you, I want to ask you: Do you ever wonder if what you are doing makes any difference? Do you ever get frustrated at how little the church impacts the world today? Would you like to see ‘Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done’ become a worldwide reality, not merely a weekly prayer?”
Pastor Donovan wanted to cry out a wholehearted “Amen,” but he stopped himself and stared warily at the stranger whose words too closely expressed longings hidden yet growing with each passing Sunday. Guarded, Pastor Donovan answered, “Sure. Who wouldn’t want to see more change?”
Placing his hand on the pastor’s shoulder, George said with a smile that indicated insight, “I sense that you really want this. Let me just say—and I know that you have other things you need to do right now—that there have been advancements in my research that I know will intrigue you, if not revive and embolden your ministry and calling. So, if you are interested, please come to SarkiSystems tomorrow night. I will be meeting with a few others after work to discuss how technology and faith can finally, and I mean with finality, work together.” With this announcement, George stood up, shook Pastor Donovan’s hand, and exited the sanctuary.
Pastor Donovan sat for a moment, alone on the aging mahogany pew. “I know that you have other things you need to do right now.” These words, uttered by George as an aside, stirred up both discontent and hope inside him. What other things? What’s more important than my calling? Feeling like the withered man at the pool of Bethesda, Pastor Donovan wondered if this stirring of the water was for him this time? Was George his Jesus asking him, “Do you wish to get well?” Was the invitation to this meeting tomorrow his own “Arise, take up your pallet, and walk” moment of truth? Or would this be yet another disappointment?
* * * * *
Mondays were Pastor Donovan’s day off. He usually woke up second-guessing what he said and did the day before. Regret, resentment, and self-criticism tired his body and consumed his spirit. At times, especially over this past year, he had considered making a change. For brief moments he thought about leaving the ministry. But mostly he thought about switching his day off. Why not be the “Monday morning
