A Leaky Roof

The Pastor spoke to the Deacons, "Gentlemen, I'll read the Charleston Evangelist's terms for leading our revival. Fee, $500 cash. Bonus pay, 10 converts $50 each, others $100 each. Room and breakfast in Deacon Adams' home. Dinners by Invitations. Are you ready to vote?"

Willard Dalton stood. "I move that we table the terms and use the money to repair the church roof."

Deacon Adams said, "Point of order! The roof isn't our concern."

The Pastor agreed. "The motion is denied."

Willard sits, fuming. "That means, sit down and shut up. Punching Adams in the nose is in order, but it would bring the sheriff. I can't stop them from hiring that preacher but I'll make them sorry they did."

Deacon Adams called for a vote.

Willard stood again. "Times are hard, a local parson will preach for room and board. Let's trade pastors with another church and save money. I vote NO."

The others voted Yes.

"Is the preacher from that round church, where the Devil can't trap you in the corner?" Willard stewed. "Using the church to show off clothes and wealth is sinful. No, it isn't! That's what money is for. If I had some, I'd show off too." He looked around the room. "But not to these ingrates."

Deacon Adams was up. "When the church becomes a National Historical Site, we'll open a gift shop and sell replicas of our church bell. It came from Ireland."

Willard's brain was in overdrive. "Hogwash! The church isn't 50 years old, and was nothing to brag about when it was new. The boards were as thin as the ham on a bus station sandwich, and it never had inside walls. When it rains, the tin roof is so noisy you can't hear the singing. Irish bell my eye! Grandpa picked it out of the mail order catalog. But Irish antique is more elegant than Sears dinner bell."

The Pastor said, "That's it, the meeting is adjourned."

Willard sat alone, holding a list of the preacher's sermons for the week. The title of the last one, Gabriel's Trumpet, put a brilliant plan in motion.

He recalled a sermon his Grandpa Dalton gave one time. "On Resurrection Day, the Angel of the Lord will call all souls to judgment. If your name's not in the book of life, you'll go to torment! There are no appeals and no plea-bargaining; you're a goner! No one knows the day, so get your name in the book before it's too late." It scared the daylights out of Willard then, and it would get last minute converts now. He folded the paper and went home.

From the church to his house, by path, was less than a mile and downhill all the way. It was four miles by the road. In the quiet woods, Willard heard the chain saws, clearing land for the lake that would cover his farm. He had to move out, very soon.

Was Gabriel a cherub on a white cloud, or an archangel on a black cloud? Finding little in the King James Bible, Willard thought it might be a myth. However, he knew that hearing a myth repeatedly makes it true in the mind. The belief that Gabriel would blow the horn was his ace in the hole.

Willard was a bugler and a trumpet player. He learned as a child, on the old horn from over the mantel. He touched the worn Dalton crest, on the curved horn with the silver mouthpiece, and ran his hands over the smooth surface. Time and care had turned the old hunting tool into a rare instrument. Its notes, in the dark of midnight, sent cold shivers up the spine. The ghostly sound spoke to the primeval soul.

On the first night, Willard saw that the preacher knew his business. "He might get so many converts that the offering won't cover the bonus. If the Deacons have to pay out of their pockets it'll serve them right."

On Friday, Willard told the storekeeper, "I'll miss the last day or two of the revival. I'm going to town to find a job and a place to live. My house will be torn down in a few days." The news of his leaving would spread fast. It was the cover story for his Saturday plan. Back at home, he put his pickup truck in the barn and closed the window shades in the house. The place looked empty. He would eat cold food for a day.

Willard went to the church on Saturday afternoon. He carried his horn, a blanket and a sandwich. Inside, he climbed from a pew to the attic. The steeple walls, and a floor used for hanging the bell, formed a little room. He settled down there to wait, ate and went to sleep.

Talking in the room below woke him. The pews were full and he had the best seat in the house. Old timers, in white shirts, sat in the A-Men comer. Fans, with holy scenes, stirred the air. It was a Norman Rockwell painting, with sound and motion. The scene made Willard wish he were a preacher.

After a song and the offering, the sermon began. The crowd was a violin and the preacher played it well. He quoted. "The trumpet of the Lord will sound, and time will be no more."

The crowd responded. "No more time! Praise the Lord!"

He rocked back and forth. "With the earth on fire, there's no place to go, when you hear Gabriel's trumpet blow."

In the steeple, Willard blew a low C note. The fans slowed, mothers hugged children and the old men stirred. The preacher glanced upward but held his nerve, and his congregation. At the sound of the horn, the crowd and the preacher became an entity.

It was soul stirring. Willard moved to join them, but came to his senses and stopped. "If I go down there now they'll lynch me in the churchyard."

The preacher recited. "On the last day, the trumpet sound will shatter the walls of Heaven and Earth! Are you ready for the last day?"

The crowd sang back. "The last day!" "Hallelujah!"

The preacher leaned back, arms upraised. "Both the Quick and the Dead will hear the trumpet blow!"

An old white-haired Deacon called out, "Blow the trumpet!"

That was Willard's cue to play his best. "The Battle Hymn of the Republic." The clear notes rang from the steeple and echoed in the woods, guiding Angels to the dim lamps at the church.

There was complete silence for half a second before everybody jumped up and headed for the door and windows. People jammed the aisle. Some tried to climb over those in front and others prayed. The church shook, the steeple trembled and Willard hung on for dear life. It was mass chaos.

The bell above the preacher and the lectern rang once, like a doorbell. Was it Gabriel? Lowering his chin, the parson said, "I hate a church with one door!" and ran through the thin wall.

Willard clutched a rafter. "If he had hit a wall stud the whole shebang would have collapsed, with me under it."

Folks ran through the new exit and the room emptied, adding to the melee in the yard. Pandemonium walked upon the scene. But he didn't tarry. The yard emptied.

Willard saw a cloudy sky, with lightning on the horizon. He picked up an abandoned kerosene lantern and started home. Rain fell as he reached the path. The storm's fury increased with every step. Wet and nervous, he was almost running when the lantern's globe hit a rock. The glass shattered and the flame went out. Willard dropped the useless lantern and went on, finding the path by the lightning flashes.

An eerie, whoo-hoo-hoo, clear and distinct above the storm's roar, startled him. "What was that? Owls aren't out in this storm! It was a horn! The wind stopped while a horn blew! It was Gabriel's Trumpet!" The lightning flashed. "He has loosed the fearful lightning!" In panic, Willard ran down the path, into a tree, and fell to one side.

He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the mashed nose and painful knee. A lightning flash led him back to the path. He took a few steps and stopped, afraid to move in the dark. He stared at the dark, waiting for light. In the next flash, he saw the Angel of Death, standing on the path, arms outstretched.

Willard jumped back. His boot heel slid in the mud and he fell off the lower side of the narrow path. The back of his head landed on a rock and he passed out.

He woke up cold and wet, with a headache. The storm had passed. The moon's position showed he had been there for hours. He crawled up the bank to the path. The Angel of Death was a dead sycamore tree that had been there for years. Willard limped slowly down the moonlit path.

Day was breaking when he pushed his front door open. The bathroom mirror showed his swollen nose and scratched face. He filled the tub with hot water, thankful that the electric lines were still up. After the hot bath, he rubbed liniment on his knee and felt better.

Sitting on the couch, reviewing the night, his thoughts went to being scared out of his wits by the old tree. He had seen that tree a hundred times before, and knew that it wasn't the Angel of Death. He had seen the Angel of Death one time, and knew that it wasn't an old tree. That was the Fourth Horseman on the path, waiting to embrace him. If he'd kept the lantern lit, he'd be lying out in the woods now, dead as a doornail.

Gabriel's trumpet was an owl sitting in a hole in that old sycamore tree. But that didn't make sense. He had hunted in those woods for 50 years and heard every kind of owl hoot. None of them sounded like the horn he heard last night. The Angel Gabriel was not a myth; he blew the horn.

He thought about his vengeful act. Mocking his neighbor's faith, to shame the Deacons, was wrong. Last night was a warning to change his ways. The fearful sword was drawn and he was lucky to be alive. He put his head in his hands and prayed for guidance, then slept.

Willard woke up with a plan for repairing the church roof. He climbed to the top of the barn, and began pulling nails and removing the roof. His knee was swollen, but far less painful now. He hauled truckloads of roofing until the entire barn roof was in the churchyard.

Back at the barn on Monday morning, Willard tore planks from the outside wall, piled them on the pickup truck, and went to the church. He would repair the hole in the wall and then start on the roof. He was surprised to see Deacon Adams' Buick, with some pickup trucks, parked at the church. Five or six men stood around the pile of roofing. Willard drove to them, got out and leaned on the truck door. "Good morning, Gentlemen."

Deacon Adams said, "Did you put this stack of roofing here? What are you going to do with that lumber? Did you hear about what happened at the church? What's going on, Willard?"

When Adams ran down, Willard answered. "Yeah, I put it there for the church roof." He began lying. "I had a heck of a time Saturday night. I got home late, tired and feeling like I had the flu. I ate some sardines and crackers, drank a half-pint of moonshine and went to bed. I dreamed that Gabriel came and chased me into the woods, and the Angel of Death nearly killed me. I woke up on Sunday morning with a black eye. I guess I walked in my sleep. It was the worst nightmare I've ever had, or a vision telling me to change my ways. I'm starting my change by fixing the roof myself. What happened at the church?"

Deacon Adams said, "All the church members were there, and some say it was a miracle. Several of us had the same idea that you did about fixing up the church on our own. We have all been selfish and lazy. The thing Saturday night changed us. This may be the best revival we've ever had."

Deacon Adams led Willard away from the others. "Folks are sorry that you're moving to town. They don't want the last of the Dalton family to leave here. I too, wish you would stay. By trying a little, we could be the best of friends.

"When they finish the lake, things will change. Rich folks will move out here and there'll be jobs for all of us, caring for houses and lawns and taking them fishing. Times will be good. The homefolks will pay you a living wage to take care of the church. You'll have food on your table and a warm place to sleep. I wish you would think about it before you go off to town and become a night watchman, or something."

Willard nodded. "That's the best offer I've had lately."

Deacon Adams took a cold soda from the Buick, popped the top, and gave it to Willard. "You are a slick, calculating, scalawag. Brother Dalton, and you have won my respect. I'll call you Deacon, from now on."

"Thank you. Deacon Adams, I appreciate that. Respect is worth more than money."

"Deacon, your community insight escaped me until Saturday night. You have great leadership potential. Have you ever thought of running for public office?"

Willard sipped his soda. "Thanks, Deacon. Potential leader sounds a lot better than scalawag."

Adams smiled. "That Yankee hymn you played was inspiring."

"I'm sorry some folks got bunged up a little but it was friendly fire. I've asked the Lord to forgive me."

Willard drove the riding lawn mower under the oak tree, leaned back and rested his eyes on the tranquil scene. The white church, with stained glass windows and a high steeple, sat on a lush lawn above the lake. Near the road, a sign with a golden trumpet on top said. Angel Gabriel Community Chapel. The words, Willard Dalton-Caretaker, were at the bottom. An arrow pointed to his cottage. Life was good.