James Calvin Schaap

Pastor Buntz was out of town—strategically, Mona Lefers thought—at a seminar on relationships held, of all places, in Las Vegas. Diane Kramer (the "other woman," as Butch Vermulm liked to call her) had season tickets to the symphony, so she was absent too. Grady Fisher had tried, but failed, to get out of his daughter's Girl Scout banquet.

It's quiet in there now. There's a crack in the curtain, and when I looked inside, I saw all of those kids sitting there on the edge of their chairs, just like I thought they would. That's not to say I wasn't worried. I prayed a lot... But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Members of the Worship Committee couldn't bring themselves to get really angry at Betty Simmons for providing "lunch." They had determined long ago that elaborate goodies at every meeting was a tradition that had expired with gender-based Bible studies—the Men's Society vs. The Martha Society (and why was it never called Women's Society?). Everyone agreed that in a culture already cholesterol-sensitive, there would, henceforth, be no more late lunches—nothing but coffee, or, preferably, apple juice.

The council, very much on edge as they talked about it, concluded that the turmoil began when Lizzy Sibbelink visited her sister Heather up north and worshiped at Heather's church on Cutler Avenue.

Ann-Marie really wished she hadn't noticed. Right after Pastor Barry started the morning service on Sunday, he brought up seven kids who'd gone to a retreat at Holiday Mountain, had them each recount some weekend highlight, then asked them to sing a verse of the theme song. Since it's not every day that teenagers sing with such gusto, the moment thrilled the congregation.

Pastor Kirk really knows how to pack 'em in. I mean like where does it say in the Bible that church has to be boring? People act as if somewhere in Leviticus or something it says that they've got to tiptoe to the temple dressed in sackcloth and ashes. You know what I'm saying—long faces, dead silence. But then what about David? I mean you read about David dancing it up so wild his wife got steamed!

Confessions of a wedding soloistThe great feminist revolution notwithstanding, weddings remain the sole province of women. I know. I've watched weddings stealthily for years—hidden behind great palm fronds, tucked furtively into the shadows cast by huge pipe organs, or concealed in an out-of-the-way corner of a choir loft.

By some ancient arrangement, the entire town of Turtle Lake knew that in the event of a blizzard—October through April—First Church would always have services, no matter what the size of the drifts. The church's central location, people claimed, would allow the hardy and fervent from all congregations to plow through the banks to sanctuary at this one house of worship.

You just see once if this don't beat all. My Virg just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and got himself elected VP of the consistory, and ever since that day, the things that washed up our way—well, you just wouldn't believe.