Finally

Finally, I'm back to writing and working on a book. It's been a strange cold, dry spell. I know why I got back to it. My wife laid it on the line. "You're too old to ever make any money to amount to anything playing music, so get back to writing."

I guess that was the motivation I needed. Plus, the fact that we're broke.

But as always, there is a conflict: the writing has started to flow while I'm busy working up tunes with a blues band I'm in. Why does life always throw too much at us? Why must we make choices? I really want to get this novel churned out. I'm gong to self publish if I don't get an agent ... and I have a hunch people are gonna buy it. So how do I do both?

The Beard - a short story

Surprised! – yes, I was both surprised and honored when the preacher invited me to his office.  I’d never talked to a preacher in private before.  The secretary showed me to his door then resumed typing at her desk just down the hallway.  The typewriter’s keys echoed off the wood-paneled walls with increasing speed and repetition.  A clanking sound came from the office next to the preacher’s.  I peeked around the corner and saw the assistant preacher operating a mimeograph machine; its cylinder spun round, shooting sheets of solvent-soaked paper onto a stack.  The smell of mineral spirits filled the air, reminding me of when I was young and used to paint wrought iron in my family’s business.  I used to enjoy getting high from the paint fumes and I hate to admit it, but I wondered if the assistant preacher was copping a buzz.  He hummed an old gospel hymn, What A Friend We Have In Jesus.  Every now and then, he’d sing a line out loud and chuckle afterwards.  I don’t know if he was high, but he sure looked happy.  His big smile filled the bottom half of his pie face, reminding me of drawings I’d seen of the man in the moon.  I drew back before he saw me; I didn’t want to interrupt such a moment of bliss.  Small blotches of ink spotted his light blue blazer and red necktie.  I was surprised that someone would dress so formally for such a task; it made me self-conscious of being underdressed in an open collar shirt and khaki pants. 

Worrying about my attire only added to my anxiety as I stood in front of the preacher’s door.  I had that same queasy feeling students get when they’re called to the principal’s office.  I hesitated before knocking.  My thoughts raced.  Why would the preacher want to see me?  I’d only been going to his church for eight or nine weeks, and those were the first times I’d ever been to church in my life.  Had I made a good impression on him in the short time I’d been there?  It was pleasing to think so.  But that was egotistical and I was sure vanity was not compatible with my newfound faith.  I’d recently cut my shoulder-length hair.  Maybe that impressed him.  It had certainly impressed most of the congregation.  At church last Sunday, several men and women told me they liked my new haircut.  It still felt strange having short hair.  I would never have cut it if I hadn’t felt so out of place.  All the men in the church had their hair cut, or I suppose it’d be more appropriate to say their hair was shaved, well above their ears. There was no variation in their hairstyles, none whatsoever.  I assumed they all frequented the same barbershop.  But after the service, as the preacher shook everyone’s hand at the door before they left, he too had complimented my haircut, saying I looked sharp. So I doubted if that was why he wanted to see me. Maybe he’d heard I stopped playing drums after he preached a series of sermons on the satanic origins of rock and roll.  That’s something I never thought I’d do.  But the sincerity in his voice as he urged his congregation to flee anything associated with sin persuaded me to do the unthinkable.  Yes, I was sure this was why he wanted to see me, to commend me for sacrificing a professionI loved. 

So, I took a deep breath and started to knock, but then I worried how I would address him when he answered the door.   Should I call him Pastor or Reverend? Should I say his last name, “Hello, Pastor Simmons?” or “Hello, Reverend Simmons?” I just didn’t know what to call him.  I’d never really talked to a preacher before, other than the brief conversation I had with him the day he baptized me.  He did all the talking that day: “Do you believe Jesus died for your sins?” he asked.  “That he was buried and rose again the third day, ascended to heaven and now sits on the right hand of the Father?”  I nodded yes.  He grabbed my shoulders, threw me backwards under the water and pulled me up so fast that it’s a wonder I didn’t get whiplash.   I took another deep breath, nice and slow to calm myself, and finally, I knocked on the door.

My nervousness intensified at the sudden sound of approaching footsteps: their rapid cadence grew louder, drowning out the typewriter and the mimeograph machine.  They stopped as abruptly as they had started, as if a galloping horse had run upon a closed gate.  The door swung open.  “Well, hello,” he said, grabbing my hand and shaking it firmly, squeezing my palm just shy of pain. 

“Hello,” I stuttered.  “Hello, Pastor Simmons.”

“We don’t use titles around here,” he said, still shaking my hand.  “We’re all brothers and sisters in Christ.  Just call me Brother Randall.” 

He grabbed me by the elbow and hustled me into his office, closing the door with his other hand.  “I’m honored that you’ve come to see me, Brother Chris.” 

I nodded, not knowing how to respond.  I thought of an old Gary Cooper movie where he played a Quaker; it seemed I remembered them calling each other brother and sister.  That was in the 1800s.  It sounded so odd and ancient being called Brother Chris. 

“You do go by Chris and not Christopher,” he asked.

I nodded again, “Uh-huh.”

“Well, I’m honored you’ve come to see me, Brother Chris.” He paused for a moment, looking me directly in the eyes. I wasn’t sure if he was waiting for me to say something.

“Honored?” I asked, embarrassed.  He assured me that he was more than honored to see me.  And I’ve got to admit, it made me feel special.  After all, he was a man of the cloth.  Before joining his church, I had been popping pills and partying, doing things I’d never even confess to a preacher, so being accepted into his company gave me a great sense of pardon.  He was clad in a black suit and tie with a white shirt.  He was no taller than me, but his breadth of chest and straight shoulders, square and stiff, were intimidating.  He had a dark face with stern features and a heavy brow beneath his graying hair.  He sensed my nervousness so he smiled and showed me to a seat in front of his desk.  He sat behind it, arms folded across his chest, shoulders dug into a tall black leather chair, careful to keep his posture erect.  “I’ve been wanting to see you since I…,” The phone rang and interrupted him.   It had the loudest ringer I’d ever heard.  It startled me so that I flinched in my chair.  My mind’s eye pictured it dancing up and down on the desk like the phones in the cartoons.  He answered it and did little to hide his agitation at being interrupted. 

I glanced around his office.  The place had a mothball stillness that contradicted the clutter.  The only part of his desk that was visible were the corners; the rest was covered with cards, envelopes, stacks of books, boxes and papers.  An adjacent metal desk with a typewriter sat behind it at a ninety-degree angle.  It too was buried beneath a leaning stack of papers that had sacrificed several sheets to the floor.  The wall behind me had a bookshelf, as did the one to my right and left; each was crammed with books, every space was filled: books lying horizontally were stacked atop those shelved vertically.  Above the shelves were eight-by-ten photographs of preachers standing behind their pulpits.

“Excuse me,” the preacher said, hanging up the phone.  “I’d told my secretary I didn’t want to be interrupted, but that was an important call.” A smile came across his face. “The Lord’s work never stops.”  

“Thanks for inviting me to come see you,” I said, hesitantly. 

“I’ve been wanting to meet you, to get to know you better.  You’ve been a breath of fresh air to this church.”

“Me?” I had no idea what he meant.  If I had heard that expression before, I hadn’t paid any attention to it.  It seemed foreign and vague, but most of all, it seemed pretentious.

“Someone told me you stopped playing drums in that rock band.  Is that true?”

I nodded but didn’t answer with an immediate yes because I could tell he was proud of my decision. The truth was that I still had doubts about whether or not I had done the right thing.  I’d been playing drums professionally for thirteen years now.   Rarely had a weekend passed since the age of twelve that I hadn’t been playing music.  It seemed strange and almost sinful to just give up a huge part of my life.

“They say you’re an incredible drummer,” he added.

 “Well, I don’t know about that, but I love music.”

“It’s not every day that our congregation gets to see someone sell out completely for Jesus.  You’ve been an inspiration to them.” 

I was embarrassed at such adoration, but pleased that my sacrifice had not gone unnoticed.  “Thank you, pastor, that means a lot.”

“No, no, no, no,” he interrupted, laughing loud and boastfully.  “Brother Randall.  Remember?  Why, you’re my brother in Christ now that you’re a Christian.”

I rubbed my forehead and felt my face flush with embarrassment.  “Sorry, Brother Randall,” I stammered.  “It’s all just sort of new to me.”  I hesitated.  “And it seems odd to just give up something I’ve always been able to do.  I wish I could find some way to drum for the Lord.”

“God’s given you a lot of talents.  When a person is gifted in one area, that gift can be applied to another to bring glory to Christ.”

“Don’t you think drums could be used in the church service?” I asked, timidly. 

He frowned and rubbed his jaw.  “Music that honors Christ should soothe the spirit and calm the soul, such as the great symphony pieces and hymns; but drums, with their syncopated jungle beat, work people into a frenzy.  Why, you’ve seen them on the dance floors.”  He illustrated by jerking himself side to side in his chair, shaking his head till strands of his hair fell over his face.  “It causes them to lose control and do things that don’t honor God.”

“Well yes, but I’ve heard some of the black churches have drums.”

He combed the silver streaks of hair on his forehead back, smiled and leaned forward as he rested his arms on the desk.  “You’re right.  I have some very good friends who are pastors of black congregations.  That’s okay for them; it’s part of their genetic makeup, if you know what I mean.  There are some things that are hereditary; that’s the way God’s made us.  But when you observe the white race and how we’ve evolved, from the Israelites to the early church in the Middle East, across Europe to England and then to America, you see God has wired us genetically for structure and order, and used that discipline to spread his word.”

“Genetics?”

“That’s right.  You never see white congregations, at least not Bible-believing Baptists, jumping up and down and shouting like that.  Of course, holy rollers do that sort of thing,” he snickered.  “And those congregations are plagued with adultery and backbiting.  They cater to what feels good and once you give in to the flesh, you need more and more to satisfy it.” 

I was beginning to wish I hadn’t mentioned anything about drums in church, and wanted to find a way to change the subject when I heard myself saying, “But music is a gift.  It’s like anything else, it can be used for good or evil.” 

Brother Randall sat up erect, straightening his shoulders.  “God’s got his hand on you,” he said sternly.  “I believe he wants to use you.  I understand you’re also a writer.” 

“I’ve just taken a job at the newspaper; guess you could say I’m learning.”

“You see, God’s already redirecting your talents, you should concentrate on that.  Writing stimulates the mind.  God can use that for his glory.”

“But I guess I always looked at drumming as a gift God’s given me.”

“That’s right, you can redirect it, as I said.” He cleared his throat, loudly.  “You should start singing in the choir.  But there are certain dress codes for those in the ministry, which brings me to the reason I wanted to see you; I’ve noticed you’re growing a beard.  I was wondering why.” 

“I never had one before.  Thought I’d see what it looked like.”

“But people might associate you with Castro.”

Castro? I wondered, caught off guard.  At first, I thought he said castor, as in castor oil, but that didn’t make any sense.  “Did you say, ‘Castro?’”

“Yes,” he declared emphatically, eyeing me suspiciously.  “Fidel Castro, the president of Cuba!”

I couldn’t figure out what Fidel Castro had to do with me.  Finally, I confessed my ignorance.  “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“Castro, the president of Cuba,” he said again, looking at me as if I knew what he meant, but wasn’t letting on.  

“Well, I’ve heard of him, but not in a long time.  What’s my beard have to do with Castro?”

“He’s an atheist.  The scripture says we’re to abstain from any appearance of evil.  Castro’s beard is an image of rebellion.  That’s why all those hippies protesting the Vietnam War had beards.  They wanted to break down all social order in this country and make it a communist state.  If you have a beard, you’ll be identified with them. They’ll think you’re sympathetic to Castro.”

I’ve never been more caught off guard or unsure what to do or say in my entire life.  The Vietnam War had ended seven or eight years before.  I was still in high school and riding in the back of a Volkswagen Bug with three buddies of mine, on our way to get a pizza, when the announcement came over the radio that the war was over.  We were speechless for a moment, and then we all high-fived each other, shouting loud as we could, screaming out of the car windows that we weren’t going to have to go fight.  We drove all over town, whooping and hollering for another hour before we finally got a pizza. Now at twenty-five, that seemed like another lifetime, almost like a dream. 

“But those war protests were a long time ago,” I stammered.  “Besides, I never kept up with that sort of stuff.  Not really.  Well, maybe I did a little but mostly I just loved the music, love drumming.”

“But when people see someone with a beard they still make that association,” he said.  “A Christian has to portray Christ in a positive image.  I’ve had members of the congregation ask me about it.”

“About what?”

“Your beard.”

“My beard?”

“Yes.”

I suddenly realized that I really had been called to the principal’s office, feeling foolish for ever believing I was a “breath of fresh air.”

“But Jesus had a beard,” I said, timidly.  

“He wouldn’t have one if he were here today,” the preacher fired back.

“He wouldn’t?”

Brother Randall sighed and took a deep breath.  He looked at me for a long moment then smiled as he sat back in his chair.  “I’m surprised that you're confrontational,” he said, softly.  “You’re young in Christ.  There’s so much you have to learn about following your Savior.  The Bible says we are to obey those who rule over us, knowing they watch for our souls.  I understand you lived a worldly life before coming to Christ, isn’t that right?”

“Well, uh, yeah, I was pretty wild,” I confessed, gazing down at the floor.  “It just sort of becomes second nature in a rock and roll lifestyle.  There are always drugs and parties, girls and stuff.  It becomes normal after awhile.  You don’t think anything about it being wrong.  It’s just life.  I had to go real low before I realized how bad a shape I was in.  I did a lot of drugs, but then it got to the point where I couldn’t really live without ‘em.  That’s what led me to Christ.” 

“There’s an old saying among Christians, ‘you must sit on the grave where you buried your sins, lest they come back to haunt you.’  Do you know what that means?”

“No, not exactly.” 

“This beard of yours seems like a harmless thing, but if you start giving into worldliness in one area of your life, it’s easy to do it in another.  We have to watch the way we dress, the way we walk, the way we talk.  That’s why I don’t think it’s right for Christians to wear blue jeans.  They’re another sign of worldliness; James Dean wore jeans to defy authority.  You don’t want people to associate you with men like that.  A man should look sharp if he’s going to represent Jesus.  If your old friends see you looking just like them, pretty soon they’ll treat you just as they always did, they’ll expect you to come to their parties and go to the nightclubs with them.  That’s how the devil works, a little bit at a time till he snares you in his trap.”  He clasped his hands together in front of him on the desk.  Keeping his fingers locked together tightly, he pointed his index finger at me.  “I believe God’s got his hand on you in the most unusual way.  You don’t want to disappoint him, do you?”

“Of course not.  But I find it hard to believe that a beard or blue jeans would disappoint God.”

 The muscles in his face tightened and he stared angrily at me, looking somewhat shocked.  He put his left hand to his face and stroked his jaw for a minute that felt like an eternity. It made me uncomfortable to look at him.  I glanced around but his eyes stayed fixed on me.  One of the pictures of the preachers above the bookshelves caught my attention.  I pointed to it.  “That man behind the pulpit has a beard.”

“That’s Charles Haddon Spurgeon,” he said, defensively.  “One of the greatest preachers of all time.  He lived in the 1800s and beards were totally acceptable then. Christians must act and dress according to what’s customary in the day and age that they live in, so that their message will be well-received.  That’s why it’s important to wear a suit and tie.  People take what a well-dressed man says more seriously.”

“President Nixon was well-dressed, but people don’t think too highly of him.”

He cleared his throat louder this time.  If it had been much louder, I believed he would’ve strained his vocal chords.  “The bottom line is this, you don’t want your old friends to go to hell, do you?”

“Well no, of course not.”

“Jesus said we are to be witnesses for him.  If your old friends can’t see any difference in your life, then why would they want to become a Christian?” 

I hesitated then relented.  “I, uh, I guess you’re right.” 

“So, it’s settled then,” he said, standing abruptly and walking around his desk.  “I’ll look forward to seeing you in church Sunday without that beard.”  He laughed heartily and shook my hand.  He practically pulled me to my feet.  “It’s been such an honor getting to know you.  I’ll be looking forward to meeting with you again soon.  Why don’t you make an appointment with my secretary on your way out?  Tell her I said to set it up for next week.”      

“That’d be good,” I said, astounded that he wanted to see me again.

“And you should think seriously about joining the choir,” he said, as he briskly walked me to the door.  “We need good men like you representing Christ.”  He stopped me at the door, put his hand on my shoulder and patted me like a pet dog.  “God has his hand on you.  I can’t wait to see what he’s going to do in your life.”

“Thank you.”

With that said, he whisked me out the door.  “I hate to rush, but the Bible says we’re to be busy about the Lord’s work.  See you next week.”  

The door shut behind me and I heard his footsteps tramping back toward his desk.  When they stopped, the sound of the typewriter and the mimeograph machine replaced them.  I peeked around the corner at the assistant preacher.  He saw me and headed in my direction.

“Well, looky here,” he said, grabbing my hand, shaking it almost as violently as Brother Randall had.  “If it isn’t our very own author.  I’ve been seeing your articles in the paper.  Isn’t that something?  You’ve gone from beating the drums to banging the typewriter in no time at all.  Somebody told me you were also working on a book.”

“Well, I’d like to, but that’s a long way off, I’m afraid.”

“You could be like that man, Hemingway, you know, he hung out in those bars then went home and wrote stories about those people.  You could do that.  That’d really be something.  You could write about all those wild, crazy rock and roll musicians you used to know.”  

He was still shaking my hand. I had to ease it from him, wondering all the while if withdrawing it would offend him.  While I did so, I remembered what Hemingway looked like.  “Didn’t Hemingway have a beard?”

“Why, yeah,” he said, looking a bit startled.  “You’re right.  I think he did.”  He laughed heartily, his arms now folded across his large protruding belly.  The glaze in his eyes made me wonder again if he was high from the mineral spirits.  He glanced at my beard then looked away quickly, giving me the distinct feeling that he knew exactly why Brother Randall had wanted to see me. Then he laughed nervously, looking at my beard again.  “See, you’re already on your way.”

I said goodbye; he lumbered back to the mimeograph machine.  I nodded at the secretary on my way out, but I did not make an appointment to see the preacher the next week.  I went straight home and put my blue jeans on.

                                                              By Bernard Mitchell Plumlee, Jr. 

                                                                               © 2012