Reverend Dennis’s lips twitched in a smile. A shiver of mirth passed through his body.
For the first time, as I was seated facing our pastor, I could see his face close up, and marveled at the pale, stony hue of his eyes; and saw a thin, jagged line, seemingly a scar, across his throat, that made me shudder with the thought that it had been inflicted in Africa, by one of his savage “converts.” Reverend Dennis did not look so young and handsome as he appeared in the pulpit when his face was transformed with the joy of the Lord.
What did I care about the African mission! How could Reverend Dennis who had seemed so friendly to me, like a true brother, and not like my own brothers who were indifferent to me, imagine that I would willingly leave my home, my young family, my work and responsibilities to live with African natives, to convert them to Christianity? Nor did I feel comfortable around Negroes here in the United States, much of the time.
“They are ‘children of God,’ too, you know, Luther—the Africans.”
Reverend Dennis spoke in a slight chiding way, as if reading my mind.
I could not think of a reply. It seemed that Reverend Dennis was staring at my mouth, that began to tremble.
“If you have come to think that you have a ‘calling’ . . .”
A calling. The word that had seemed sacred to me, and to Edna Mae, was sounding now faintly preposterous. I was reminded of Mrs. S—— whose sly intonations and jarring laughter were so confusing to us in Sunday school.
“ . . .you are interested, Luther, in enrolling in a ministry school? When would this be practical for you, d’you think?”
I was trying not to betray my disappointment, that the pastor whom I so admired was speaking to me in so doubtful and discouraging a tone as if he did not seem to think that I had a “calling”—as obviously, he’d had himself at my age. I knew that Reverend Dennis had studied and been ordained at the Toledo School of Ministry, and had hoped that he would recommend me there.
Soon after our marriage Edna Mae and I moved to Muskegee Falls, to be closer to the St. Paul Missionary Church. This was a small town of about the size of Sandusky where there were opportunities for me to find work that did not depend upon the intervention of my father. For I was a proud young husband and father, and did not like to be known as Nathaniel Dunphy’s youngest son. And if I found work as a roofer or carpenter, I did not like to be working for the same construction company as my father, as I had been doing since the age of fourteen.
In this new place, in a rented clapboard house on Front Street that I had repainted outside and in, I was very happy with my life. There were commonplace worries about supporting my family, and a fear that a child might be taken ill, or that Edna Mae might lapse into melancholy (as she had following the birth of our second child, for several months), but these were of little consequence set beside the certitude that the St. Paul Missionary Church of Jesus was the “true” church, and that I was meant, like Reverend Dennis, to be a minister in this church.
(I had not ever been able to call our pastor “Dennis” as he requested. For I did not feel as if we were [yet] equals.)
From the first sermon of Reverend Dennis which I’d heard, when Edna Mae had first brought me to the church, I had felt such awe and admiration for the young pastor, and such excitement in his presence, it came to seem that God had led me to him for a purpose; as God had led me to Edna Mae Reiser at a time in my life when I was hardly more than a brute creature, undeserving of spiritual happiness.
That had been a time of mortal danger, as well. The beating in the tavern lavatory, that might have ended in a man’s death, had made a powerful impression upon me.
God has spared you this time, Luther. But you are warned.
From that time onward I avoided my old friends. I had not invited them to my wedding for (as Edna Mae said) there would be no alcoholic drinks served at the reception, and my friends would not be happy if they could not drink.
After that we did not see one another again; and when the news came to me that our friend who had enlisted in the army had been killed in a helicopter accident while stationed in the Middle East, I felt a stab of horror and pity for him, and fell to my knees to pray for him. But I did not make any effort to contact his family, or our mutual friends.
For that had been my life of depravity and sin. My life was very different now. I did not drink more than two or three beers a week, and sometimes none at all. For Edna Mae did not drink, as most members of the St. Paul Missionary Church did not drink even carbonated beverages; and while my dear wife never expressed any evident disapproval of my drinking, I could sense that she felt unease at my behavior, and would keep the children away from me as if she feared I might injure them at such a time.