A Brush with Love: A January Wedding Story (A Year of Weddings 2 #2)(8)

. . . you fascinate us with your love.

He’d thought he might have to add worship leader to his duties—with his elementary guitar skills—until a talented young woman, Alisha Powell, volunteered for the job.

Last night Tom sat in the back of the sanctuary observing her first band practice and nearly wept with gratitude, sitting in the presence of God, feeling for the tenth time since he arrived in Rosebud that he’d returned home by the inspiration of the Almighty.

“Well, I see you found the most important tool.”

Tom glanced toward the back of the sanctuary. Pop. He leaned on the broom, smiling as his grandfather sauntered down the center aisle.

“Did you come to make sure I worked the broom right?” Tom extended his hand toward Pop.

The old man waved him off and drew Tom into his embrace. “I reckon you can handle sweeping up well enough. But glad to know you can sweep as well as you preach.” Pop eased down on the front pew, taking in the altar and pulpit, raising his gaze to the ceiling, then fixing his eyes on Tom. “Preached my first sermon here when I was nineteen.” He pointed to the pulpit. “I think that old thing was here way back then.”

Tom sat next to him, resting the broom against his leg. “What’d you preach on, Pop?”

“Walking worthy of His calling. Fulfilling every desire for goodness and the work of faith with power.”

“Second Thessalonians.”

“Good,” Pop slapped his thighs and pushed to his feet. “Number one job of a preacher. Know the Word. Live it, pray it, sing it. So, Edward Frizz worked a deal for this old place?” He stepped up and moved behind the pulpit.

“He did me a solid. Found this place for sale, cheap, right before we signed a big, expensive lease on . . .” Tom paused, about to stir up painful memories.

“Your dad’s old church?” Pop said it for him.

Tom dashed the broom bristles against the floor as he stood. “That building was in good shape. Way more modern than this place, but expensive. And, I don’t know, I didn’t want to—”

“Be in his shadow?” Pop leaned over the brown, thirsty wood pulpit. “Remind folks of what happened?”

“I just want to walk my own path. You and I both know Rosebud is populated with a lot of people who attended Dad’s church. They know he left under suspicious circumstances. I only found out recently what happened and why we left town in the middle of the night. But I can guarantee there’s a boatload of folks with their own ideas. I came here because the Lord directed me. Not to drag up the past and its suspicions.” Tom pointed the broom handle at the ancient pipe organ behind the baptismal. “I want a fresh start. Even if we have to do it in this old place. With that big, old organ in place.”

Pop came down the platform steps. “Your daddy did the right thing leaving the way he did. Cutting ties. Not taking anything but his family and the necessities.”

“Didn’t seem so at the time.”

Pop made a face. “No, but you turned out all right.”

“After a wild detour in college and too many drunken fraternity nights.”

“Which led you to say, ‘Okay God, I’m Yours,’ after waking up week after week with your face in the toilet bowl.”

Tom laughed, shaking his head, grateful to be in his grandfather’s presence, finding comfort in the old man’s wisdom and spirit of peace. “Looking back, I can see God’s hand in my life, even in the family’s sudden departure from Rosebud, but at the time?” Tom ran the broom lightly over the dry hardwood. “I was convinced Dad and God had ruined my life.

“So, you think anyone under the age of fifty will come here next Sunday morning? Walking over from the parsonage this morning, I realized the church looks and feels so old. White clapboard exterior, steeple, narrow foyer, long, rectangular sanctuary, stained-glass windows.”

“You just be faithful to your calling and to the Lord. Let Him do the drawing and choosing.”

Tom leaned against the side of a pew. The light had shifted and a kaleidoscope of colors moved across the white plaster. “Think I can do this?”

“Does it matter what I think?” Pop took a seat again and sat back, hands on his knees, his plaid shirt smooth against his lean chest. “It only matters what He thinks, and that you’re confident in His love for you and His leadership.”

“Guess that’s the trick for everyone who wants to follow Jesus.”

“Best thing I can tell you is love Him with all your heart, mind, soul, and strength. You do that and you won’t have time for any other kind of hanky-panky.”

Speaking of hanky-panky . . . “I ran into Ginger Winters this morning.”

Pop furrowed his brow. “Not sure I recall—”

“She’s the daughter of the woman—”

“Ah,” Pop nodded with realization. “I see.”

“She owns a salon on Main Street now. Where Maggie’s used to be. I went in to get a haircut for Eric’s wedding this weekend and found Ginger there instead of ole Maggie.”

“I’d heard she’d retired. But news travels slow out to the farm.” Pop peered at Tom with a twinkle. “What’s with this Ginger gal? Other than being the daughter of—”

“Right . . . Well, we were friends, starting to get close when everything went down. I didn’t even know her mom and Dad knew each other.”