...one who will lead them out and bring them in, so that the Lord’s people will not be like sheep without a shepherd...Numbers 27:17
I have one pivotal character who holds all four stories together in my Hillbilly Hijinks series, the pastor, Leo Tomlin. He came to Possum Holler at age 27 and is in his late 50s by the end of the series. I've always seen two people to portray his age progression: Hugh Jackman and Clint Eastwood. Do you agree? Vote Yes or No in your comments. If no, who can you envision?
2
Shepherd the Flock
The
five hundred twenty-seven residents within Possum Holler, West Virginia, did
not refer to Leo Tomlin as "Reverend," "Brother," or "Pastor."
Although he had a Doctor of Theology, nobody called him "Doctor"
Tomlin. He was "Preacher" Tomlin. He was pastor, counselor, preacher;
he performed weddings, funerals, baptisms; he played banjo and guitar, square
danced, took occasional swigs of moonshine with members of his congregation. He
did not shepherd his flock for money. His paltry salary from the mission board
barely fed and clothed him, but he never went hungry. Most residents invited
him to dine with them often. His housing was free. He was the religious
shepherd in Possum Holler because he loved the people.
Leo lost
himself in thought. I'm glad to be hidden
from the mainstream of religion. The ruling ministers of the mission board
would never condescend to visit here. I know the way I conduct myself would
fall under serious criticism of most evangelicals. Still, this is my
congregation, and if the church authorities cut me off, I'll always have a home
with these people. He uttered a prayer of thanksgiving that his church remained
non-denominational and accepted all who attended.
When Leo heeded
God's call, he realized serving the Lord meant remaining a bachelor—leaving
someone he loved dearly. "Being a missionary means going to remote places.
I can't take you there, Lauren," he had said and waited for her reaction,
breath held.
It did not go
well. She screamed; she threw books, shoes, and knickknacks at him. "Get
out, you coward! How dare you think so little of me?"
It was I thought so highly of you. Still do.
He heaved a weighty sigh at the memory.
Nonetheless,
after eulogizing five members of the same family in three years, he had taken
on the additional shepherding responsibility of a child.
Once he arrived
at age twenty-seven, Leo's wide-eyed ideal of saving souls and bodies changed
almost overnight. By Possum Holler standards, he was middle-aged, though he saw
himself as young, with an undergraduate degree in psychology, a Master of
Christian Education and a Doctor of Theology.
Well, Lord, You called me here, instead of
to an inner-city church or a third-world country. And I've been here for
eighteen years. Leo meditated on those years as he read Scripture. "Bring
up a child in the way he is to go, and when he is old he will not depart from
it."
He flipped
pages of his journal:
Population
here is 589; middle income is $11,000; average household size—seven; median
education level is eighth grade. Most popular jobs: coal mining, farming, and
bootlegging. Life expectancy: 44—men, 40—women. Only homes within the corporate
limits have running water and electricity. Outlying areas might have wells or
pumps, but no indoor plumbing; some have outhouses; others don't.
Medical
care is almost non-existent. Grandma Newton, midwife and herbalist, still
delivers babies. The woman could be an ancient Druid. Some of her practices
seem like witchcraft, but many of the herbal remedies work. Infant mortality
rate is still sky-high, as are childbirth deaths.
"Things
haven't improved much, since I first arrived." Leo sighed. "Girls are
still married or pregnant by sixteen."
He shook his head and read another entry: The
horror stories about inbreeding are real. Grandma does a good job when there
are no complications. "I
can say most of the inbreeding has
stopped."
He dog-eared
the page. Alain, Alain, Alain. He bit
his lip and tasted the bitterness of blood.
"Many of
the people have simple, childlike faith," he said softly. "A few
escape, but most never return. Others die, still believing, still loving, and
still trying." Ander Reardon's face came to the front of his memory. "You
were twenty-four when I met you, Ander, but looked forty, trying so hard to be
a good father, husband, and friend." A tear rolled down his cheek. "I
still miss him, Lord. I had to bury his wife, three of the children—and Ander."
Pneumonia took you, my dear friend. "Nobody
so young and healthy should die like that, Lord."
That night was frigid—single digits.
Starless, pitch-black. Mac walked twelve miles from their cabin to this house.
A seven-year-old. The preacher rubbed his face with both hands. "I'll
never forget opening the door and hearing, 'Pa's not breathing.'" Leo
wiped away another tear. "That day, Mac became the child of my heart, even
if I never legally adopted him."
He sat
pensively a few minutes longer. "My precious boy is now a doctor." He
smiled. "Time to make a call."
Dr. MacKenzie
Reardon snatched the receiver from the phone on the wall as he and his wife
entered their apartment just after his graduation. "Hello?"
Felicia
continued to their bedroom with a seductive lick to her lips and a wink that
said, "Make it quick."
"Hello,
Dr. Reardon!"
"Papa! I
wish you were here." Mac closed the apartment door with his foot.
"Me, too.
Congratulations. I won't keep you long. What's next?"
"We leave
tomorrow for Chicago."
"That
soon?"
"Yes, sir.
Felicia has a job interview. Papa, I have news."
"What's
that?"
Mac gusted a
breath. "We're expecting a baby."
"Oh."
The one word was weighted with shock. "I thought you were waiting."
"Me too."
"Well, it's
a gift—just like you were. Congratulations a second time."
"Thanks."
"I'm so
proud of you. Ander would be just as proud."
Strained
silence followed. "Mac?" Leo prompted.
"Papa, why
don't you come to Chicago
for a short visit?"
"I have my
flock here."
"They'll
survive a couple of weeks without you. This little lamb could use a visit."
"I'll try.
Call me when you get settled. I love you, Mac."
"I love
you, too, Papa." Mac hung up the receiver.
The pink lace teddy
Felicia wore as she ran her hands up her husband's back did not dilute her
acerbic question. "Why do you call him 'Papa'? It sounds so childish. Why
not 'Dad'?"
Prejudice? Judgment? "Where I'm
from 'Dad' is strange. Sometimes 'Daddy', but never 'Dad.' Usually it's 'Pa'."
"You're so
silly."
"No, I'm
serious."
"You make
it sound like The Beverly Hillbillies.
Were you surprised by the cement ponds?" Felicia laughed.
Does she realize how awful that sounds? Mac
scowled and shot back, "Felicia, The
Beverly Hillbillies is a joke. If you want closer to the truth, watch Deliverance."
"Are you
mad at me?" She nibbled her index finger.
"No,
darling." He placed his hands on her shoulders. "Forget the
stereotypes—just like you're not a dumb blonde. I just want you to understand."
"I do."
Doubtful. "Oh, I hope so."
She put on a
pouty face. "I thought we were celebrating. I'm dressed for the occasion."
"We are,
and you're gorgeous, breathtaking. No more depressing talk. Come here." Mac
kissed Felicia and then swept her into his arms and took her to bed.
"Lord, Mac's
troubled. What do I do?" At his desk in Possum Holler, Leo prayed, one
hand still on the receiver. "Yes, I must visit my lamb—he's not lost, but
in need. The father will travel, but the preacher must make plans."
Leo stood,
stretched his thin seventy-four-inch frame and headed outside to find Royce
Dent, a deacon and owner of the general store. "He'll take care of the
Sunday Sing and dinner on the grounds." He took a deep breath. "Yes,
my flock won't flounder for only one weekend without me." Preacher Tomlin
walked down the dirt road to the general store.
You nailed it! I love this series and you know it. Every character becomes special and unforgettable.
ReplyDelete