The Billows : The Ink Well Writing Challenge - Season 2 - Week 7

The message for Sunday morning's sermon:

"Compassion; forgiveness; charity; and redemption.
For without them, society will fail."

The Pastor who delivered the sermon: Rev. Phillips.
His resounding pronunciation of each attribute visibly shook some members of his congregation as they briefly gave the pews a questioning look from one end to the other.

Perhaps the looks were to locate others who fit the descriptions. In any event, several eventually gave up and stared into their hands as if they'd see the face of someone there.

Their actions didn't go unnoticed. Rev. Phillip looked at several members on the front pew before continuing his message. His sermon was especially significant this particular Sunday morning.

You see, the Church Pantry was down to one shelf. Donations were sorely needed to replenish them as well as the freezers, and coolers for fresh produce. And they needed the replenishment by the weekend.

At the end of the sermon, Rev. Phillips directed his ushers to come to the front of the church. Confused looks on their faces dissipated when they realized their new mission.

"I won't ask for any donations this Sunday. You may stop by and drop off any offering with which you feel comfortable, but only if you can spare it. "

All but five of the congregation headed for the exits. Rev. Phillips thanked and was pleased to see the five members move towards the ushers and the collection plates.

He dedicated the donations, then called out, "May I speak with you a moment, Mr. Hardwick?'"

In his late forties, Herman Hardwick swallowed quickly as he remembered he was wearing his new tailored suit he bragged about ordering last week for the service today. The pulpit clear, he strolled over.

"I'm in a bit of a rush, Rev. Phillips. Can we speak tomorrow?"

"I just want to ask how your funeral service business is maintaining?"

"I'm at a loss to understand why business is slow. The pandemic hit Martinsville pretty hard." Herman then looked at his watch.

"Have you finished reviewing the proposal to make your services more affordable? It'll benefit both your business and the town."

"I'm reviewing the paperwork."

"It's been over three months now, Herman. You missed the deadline." Rev. Phillips looked him directly in the eye.

"I'm already late for another appointment," Herman said hastily, then bid Rev. Phillips farewell before rushing out the side door.

Rev. Phillips was about to sit on the front pew when he heard a door open. Turning towards the sound, he smiled as the baseball cap entered, accompanied by Mr. Johnson.

Wesley Johnson sat in the last pew as was his routine. Pastor didn't expect otherwise.

Rev. Phillips walked swiftly down the isle towards the front door. Sitting close to Wesley, he slipped a piece of paper in his hand, then covered his hand tightly for a moment.

"God bless your good deeds, Wesley. May you have peace and fortitude as you go about your service. See you next week."

Wesley clasped the paper even tighter in his hand before shoving it in his pocket without looking. He stood up and moved quickly from that place he felt he no longer belonged.

~~~~~~~

It was a brisk night as Fall was settling in. Wesley turned up the heater in his truck. Looking at the number of customers on the paper from Pastor, he wanted to cry. To complete this order, he'd need more cremation supplies. Mid month, and his monthly income was running out.

Wesley was a quiet man with few needs of his own. He gave his wife the most elegant send off to her heavenly home about ten years ago. He then moved into the upstairs apartment of his establishment while he dedicated his small mortuary business to the first floor.

He retired early from the mortuary business; not from lack of enthusiasm for the work and helping others, but financial restraints.

About five years ago, Wesley's major competitor with a larger share of the funeral home service market, forced him to call it quits. He held no ill will. As Herman Hardwick characterized it, "just business, Wesley. You understand."

Yes, Wesley did understand the business end of it. But still, it didn't sit well with him. So he sold it and moved to a small two-bedroom home on the edge of town. His monthly retirement income allowed him to live comfortably.

~~~~~~~

Later that evening, Herman Hardwick, with hands behind his neck paced in his living room. "How dare him call me out like that?"

"I agree, dad." Benedict Hardwick always agreed no matter the subject. He also knew his dad discarded the paperwork.

"People are dying in this town. Why haven't they arranged services with me? Hand now under chin, he exclaimed loudly, "something's up and I won't stop until I find out where all those dead bodies are."

"Want me to help investigate? I'm good at sneaking around asking questions discretely." They looked at each other. A slow grin crossed their faces.

"Better you than me, son." People will get suspicious if I ask questions. Besides, I've turned away too many this past year wanting reduced prices for full-time services. I've a business to run and employees to pay."

Benedict nodded, even though he knew he was only one of four employees on payroll.

~~~~~~~

Wesley stopped by his usual supplier, then headed home. He hastily prepared dinner and sat down to eat. A knock three times in rapid succession alerted him that a customer had arrived to drop off their loved one.

He shoved dinner to the side. It could wait. Getting the coffin into the shed was priority. Finished with this task, Karen Thomas and her husband hugged him tightly. By the time they left, Wesley's shirt was wet with thankfulness. He returned to his dinner, took out the list, and crossed out the family's name.

The next night two more families delivered their loved ones.

On the third night, the living room fireplace signaled to anyone outside that it was heating up the entire house. He continued to work, already having gathered enough wood from the outdoor bin to keep it roaring for several hours.

Billowing smoke filled the air and could be seen for a few blocks. Rising high in the air, mixing with the elements of the atmosphere then dissipating, the thick black substance meshed with the near darkness of the evening.

Wesley paused. He placed his tools on the table as the rustling of bushes outside the window stirred him to investigate.

The porch light didn't show anyone or anything close by. He stepped to the side window and saw shoe footprints. His heart beat rapidly.

He returned to the house and sat while questions swirled. How long was someone there? Had they been watching him before? What if someone saw the bodies being delivered?

In his heart, he knew he'd been exposed. But who would come sneaking around his home? He'd been as careful as he could. The last thing he wanted to do was get his neighbors in trouble. He knew what they thought he was doing if someone actually saw the transactions this past week.

He now waited for the next move.

It came sooner than expected. The next morning, he visited the Crematorium in the nearby town 40 miles away. Several hours later, he pulled into his driveway.

Before he could exit the car, rocks were hurled at the window. The sounds he heard were shouting and profanities.

"It's horrifying what he's been doing."
"It's inhuman.
"It's insane."

All this he heard while trying to protect his face from the flying debris.

And the loudest voices of all were Herman and Benedict Hardwick. In fact, they held clubs high in their hands ready to pounce on Wesley if he left the car.

Wesley had to get inside his home. He figured he'd be safe there. But the crowd had turned into a mob; ten people as best he could see. Suddenly his head hurt. He put his hand to his temple. But it was his shirt that terrified him as it was covered in blood. For a moment, he forgot about the growing situation outside as he tried to wipe his hands clean. He didn't know whether it was the rocks or the broken glass that hit its target.

Attempting to explain to a mob who had already made up their minds was useless.

Desperation was setting in fast. He thought of the only person he trusted and knew the truth: Rev. Phillips. He had to get to the church before the mob beat him to death. There was no trying to rush inside the house now. His only option was to get out of there as quickly as he could.

He cranked the car and backed up, trying not to run over anyone. All the while the yelling continued while the mob hit the back of his car with rocks and clubs.

Once the mob saw that Wesley was trying to escape, they rushed to their cars as well. The scene looked like a street racing event as Wesley barrelled through the yard onto the street with the other cars following him closely. He wasn't a fast driver; more careful than others. But this afternoon, he had to drive faster than he thought he could.

Screeching tires, honking horns, and yelling out the windows for him to stop was all that could be heard as passersby on the sidewalks and in other cars moved away from the calamity.

He knew where he was going. By the route he took, the mob also knew.

Some tried to cut him off by taking a shortcut. Where are the authorities when you need them, he thought. The church now in sight, Wesley sped up again to reach the parking lot. Ten seconds later, the other drove hard barely waiting for each to take it's turn entering.

~~~~~~~

Rev. Phillips had been worried for the past several days for his congregation and his city. If only I could do more, he thought. The unemployment situation had everyone on edge. They come to me for advice, solace, and help. I feel as though I've disappointed them; that somehow in my position, I could have done more with my influence.

He had to get ready for mid-week service, but he couldn't concentrate. With pen still in hand, he placed his head on the desk as he thought about the overall situation of Martinsville.

He'd made twenty-five house calls in the past two weeks. He knew it was a sad time for their town. No help was forthcoming from any agencies in a position to do so. The delay, they all said, was due to both sides not being able to find common ground.

While they bickered among themselves, real people were hurting. They're hurting for themselves and their loved ones they've lost. The money promised was to be used for more than just food and shelter. It was also used to make payments on giving their loves ones a decent home going. There were those who were willing to help that had little resources; then those who could help, but sat on the sidelines. Wesley Johnson came to mind when he thought of the former.

And yes, the unemployment and other issues had taken its toll on our town. His pantry was empty because his congregation couldn't afford to tithe each week or give anything extra. His heart ached at the thought of turning just one away who was in need.

The jobless numbers for Martinsville were due out the end of this week. He expected the townspeople to come seeking help. It was now routine as each week this past year, hundreds were in need. The shutdown and relocation elsewhere of the distribution center that employed the majority of the town hit them hard. Most employees couldn't afford to travel the long distance to keep their positions.

The minimum wage employment earned didn't afford his members to live anywhere near above their means. They barely survived to the next paycheck. The small town depended on each other. Neighbor helping neighbor. That's how they managed to survive throughout this past year.

But next week was predicted to be the worse yet. Unemployment in his city was expected to reach 20%. The two-month severance pay the distribution company awarded would run out for most of their former employees.

From his study, he heard banging on the front door to the Church. He raised his head and rose quickly from his chair.

~~~~~~~

By the time he reached the front door, the screams were at a fever pitch. He thought surely someone was being attacked. Not thinking to call for help, he swung the door open quickly to see if anyone was hurt or needed assistance. Words he didn't normally hear at this place spewed forth from several directions that seemed to be aimed at someone.

It dawned on him the moment he heard Wesley Johnson's name being yelled out, that the situation was dire.

Rev. Phillips took a deep breath and stepped onto the entry way. Automatic lights, signaling night was approaching, already gave the front yard enough brightness to see Wesley within a foot of him, blood streaming down his face, with his shirt stained badly. He looked scared and stumbled as if fainting would be his next step.

"Coward. How could you run? You're guilty as hell."

This sentiment echoed from more than one source as all the individuals following him rushed towards the church with their weapons of choice in hand.

For a moment they forgot where they were.

Wesley fell into Rev. Phillips' outstretched arms just as he opened them wide to receive him. He walked backward, pulling him hard until they both were inside the church. He helped Wesley onto the pew they both had sat on earlier in the week.

He didn't want to leave Wesley alone as the crowd had now piled into the church, filling the isles with hatred on their faces. He already knew what was in their hearts. Besides, he'd heard about several members taking place in riots and other disturbances he didn't know the details of. But this time, they went too far.

He and Wesley had already discussed the potential consequences. His unusual way of helping his neighbors with affordable funeral services would be questioned. Wesley knew that Herman Hardwick would view it as undercutting his already conglomerate. Wesley knew when others in town discovered, they'd view it as something unethical or unnatural. Wesley knew, and still he desired to help.

The yelling continued until Rev. Phillips shouted for it to cease.

"How dare he burn my uncle to death? George Samuels shouted.

"Ridiculous. Why would you think that?" With an astonished look, Rev. Phillips jerked his head quickly, staring pitifully at George.

"Because I was told by Benedict Hardwick that Wesley was burning people in his chimney during the night." George pushed his chest out even further.

Rev. Phillips wanted to call for help; at least get his first aid kit. But he terrified at the thought of leaving Wesley with this crowd. Instead he said calmly, "Can't you see Wesley is hurt. Whoever did this may have to pay for their deeds."

"WE have to pay! What about him practicing unauthorized mortician services." Now Herman Hardwick had something to say and continued. "And don't try to blame my son for spreading the word. Wesley should be locked up. What he's done is against the law."

"You know better than any of these people the laws in this state regarding funeral services." Rev. Phillips fought back harsher words for Herman.

Suddenly, the crowd turned back towards a disturbance outside. Another group of townspeople were banging at the door before gaining entrance.

"We came as fast as we could when we heard." Karen Thomas and her husband, the first to step inside, were followed by other friends whom Wesley had helped.

"It's about time you showed up, Karen! Tell everyone what Wesley's done; and Rev. Phillips is in on it somehow!" Her brother never was one to think rationally.

"He's done nothing except what I authorized him to do; and leave Rev. Phillips out of it. Now, engage your brain before opening your mouth next time."

"But he burned your dad in his chimney." George was adamant.

"It's called Cremation, George. Wesley wasn't burning anything in his chimney, except wood to keep warm. He was helping me arrange more reasonable prices. You know I was laid off. You didn't even offer to help pay for funeral services for your favorite uncle. When I asked, you declined."

"Besides, if you'd taken the time to research the matter, you'd know that it takes a temperature of 2,000 deg. to cremate a body. It's usually handled by a Crematorium."

Wesley was now lying down on the bench.

"How dare you or anyone else judge him for trying to help us. You all know how expensive a funeral is. Even a cremation costs thousands of dollars." Karen was now the voice of reason in all the crowd.

"Wesley, tell them how much you arranged for the funeral home 40 miles away to perform the creation."

"$250.00 was all." Wesley tried to sit straight while holding his shirt to his head.

Talking slowly he explained: "I arranged for the Crematorium to take care of your loved ones by assisting with the service. They hired me as part time. But I refused the pay in exchange for the using their cremation retorts. Sorry, cremation chamber. Then I helped during the week with their clients. I use my retirement income to supply the alternative caskets, either made of wood or heavy cardboard. I always try to make sure they're presented in a lovely covering. I lost my mortuary business, not my license to practice."

"Then why sneak around at night like a criminal up to no good," another neighbor called out.

Rev. Phillips stated, "Because of your reactions earlier. Wesley is only a modest man of modest means, but his heart is as large as this city."

Another church member answered while looking for the Hardwicks, "the largest funeral home in the city wouldn't accept my mom's insurance policy. They said the turnaround in getting paid wasn't fast enough from the insurance company. I couldn't let my mom sit out two months." Her sobs were uncontrollable as those last words spilled out.

"I tried to get a loan at the bank." Now several in the crowd added their own stories about the banks; while others acknowledged they accepted Wesley's offer.

~~~~~~~

"We all need to sit down and reflect on how this past year has affected us and who has come to our aid. Brother Wesley has shown all the attributes I talked about last Sunday. Who among you now dare to shame him, to cast the first stone of unrighteousness at him," If it were not for him, your loves ones would probably be lying on the side of the street in their coffins. If any of you don't agree, then you're free to leave."

Herman and his son moved to the left and slipped out the side door.

Rev. Phillips stood in front of the church. While we're here, first give Wesley our apologies and our sincere thanks. He deserves no less. Then, let's give a home going to those loved ones who have finally been given the dignity they deserve.

This time several men helped Wesley Johnson to the front row, then sat beside him.

That night was a Thursday.

The message for the sermon:

"Compassion; forgiveness; charity; and redemption.
For without them, society will fail."

Rev. Phillips delivered the sermon. His soft pronunciation of each attribute calmed those in attendance as they held hands and let their grief flow. Afterwards, all placed a small donation in the collection tin.

Silence could be heard throughout the entire church.

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