The Calling Dream

Chapter 4-4

Wanda pulled into a parking space in front of the café, and we went in. There were vertical chrome bars over glass double doors with red metal frames leading to the dining area. Directly across from the doors was a long counter with round stools. Several booths lined the edge of the room. Behind the bar there were a couple of male fry cooks working a griddle. Practically everything except the walls was red and chrome. One wall was painted with a mural of an old freight truck that must have been from the 1930s, and other places around the room had pictures of old trucks. The room was filled with men of various ages sitting on the stools or at the booths. When we walked in, I didn’t notice a single other woman there besides Wanda, except for three waitresses who were all dressed in pale-blue cotton dresses with red aprons. It became quickly apparent that Wanda was a show these men had not planned on and one they greatly appreciated. One man whistled his appreciation as Wanda strolled over to a booth, but she acted like she hadn’t even heard it.

“Will this be all right?” she asked, turning back to me when she reached the booth.

“Yes, this is fine,” I said, sliding into the side opposite her as she sat down.

A chubby waitress, probably in her late forties, was quickly there with menus. She plopped them down between us and said, rather gruffly, “What’ll ya have to drink?”

“I think cola for me,” Wanda said as she looked across the table to let me know it was my turn.

“Things like that were kind of a luxury on the farm,” I replied, “so I just avoided asking for it.”

“Well, you are not on the farm anymore, Pastor Dennison,” she scolded. “Don’t worry about the tab. Mr. Clayburn is covering everything. If you want a cola, have a cola. Soon, you should be able to afford all the colas you want.”

“Oh, okay then.” I smiled. “I guess I’m going to have a cola too, then.” The waitress didn’t say another word. She simply stomped off in the direction of the bar as though she had to throw each foot out in front of her to keep from falling facedown in the floor.

“Mr. Clayburn sure must have plenty of money,” I said. “I certainly am not used to such treatment.”

“He does.” She smiled. “And you need to get used to such treatment.”

We began glancing through a very short menu, and I was struck quickly by the description of a plate lunch with meatloaf, mashed potatoes and gravy, with green peas, carrots, and a roll. I didn’t need to look any further than that. I knew if the meal tasted half as good as it sounded in that description, it would be fine.

“I think I’ll just have a burger,” Wanda quipped as she sat her menu to the side.

About that time, the waitress was back with our drinks and was ready to take our orders. We told her what we wanted. She snatched the menus from our hands and stomped off again.

Wanda and I sat silent for a few moments, I suppose not really knowing where to go with a conversation at that point. I then asked, “So how long ago did your husband pass away?”

She glanced quickly at me with a hint of “Don’t ask” in her eyes and then said, “It has been seven years.”

“That’s a long time,” I said sympathetically. “At least it seems like a long time to me.”

In my mind, I did the math, and figured she must be in her early thirties.

“Somehow,” she said, stirring her cola with the straw, “it seems like just yesterday.”

“I’m sorry that pain would still feel fresh to you,” I said quietly, suddenly feeling as though I were intruding.

“It’s hard to get past losing the love of your life,” she said, still stirring her drink.

“Is that why you have not remarried?” I asked.

“I suppose,” she said, looking up at me with a brief smile. “It just seems to be difficult to find another man who can measure up. I don’t know that I’ll ever want to remarry.” She looked briefly out the window at the parking lot and beyond, then turned back to me with a nervous expression that I had not seen in her until that point.

“It sounds like you have tried,” I commented, part of me hoping I might be the one who could measure up.

“Yes, a few times,” she replied.

“Well, I pray that Jesus will guide you to another love of your life.” I smiled nervously. “Someone who will love you as much and fulfill you as much as David did.”

“That’s sweet of you,” she said quietly. Then she took a sip of her cola, holding the straw carefully between those lusciously painted lips so her lipstick would not be smeared.

I watched her intently for a second and then tore my eyes away. I seemed to always be torn between Jesus and my lust. No matter how hard I tried, the lust kept coming back to haunt me. I found myself wishing in the brief moment before I looked away that my little soldier had been that straw in her mouth. The waitress saved me from that struggle by plopping plates in front of us and announcing: “Meatloaf plate and a burger.” I turned back around in time to see her slap silverware down on a paper napkin beside my plate.

“Thank you,” I said, and she didn’t even reply. She just turned and stomped away.

Wanda giggled. “She could use some table manners.” Then she winked at me as she laid the top half of her burger bun to the side and began nibbling at the pickle, picking up each little slice between thumb and forefinger. It seemed strange to me, but I didn’t question her approach. I stirred the gravy into my mashed potatoes and felt my little soldier pushing at the edge of my pants, thrusting against the fabric to express its intentions. I quickly unfolded the napkin and laid it across my lap, hoping no stranger’s eyes had seen it throb. “So how does all this work?” I asked and then took my first bite.

“What are you asking, exactly?” she questioned back. “How this week is going to go, or how the whole broadcast ministry works?”

“I guess maybe a little of both,” I pondered.

“Well,” she began, “this week you will have several appointments during which you will be tested to see how you appear on camera and whether you can perform on film the way I saw you perform at the tent revival last year. You will have a couple of appointments for some vocal tests, and you will need to be preparing—if you haven’t already—for your sermon at the Evangelic Temple service on Sunday. Depending on positive results of some of the screen and vocal tests, Mr. Clayburn may ask you to do a few other things.”

“Perform?” I asked. “I’m not an actor or singer or something. It is not a performance. It is ministering.”

“In a way, it is a performance,” she replied. “If you don’t hold the attention of a congregation, they won’t hear what you have to say. You have to perform to keep their interest, or your teaching is lost. That’s one of the reasons we were interested in you. You can hold peoples’ attention.”

“So how does the broadcast ministry work?” I asked.

“We are essentially like a church,” she began. “The ministry has tax- exempt status just like churches do. However, in many respects, we are like a business. We have operating expenses, and we attempt to support ourselves and our employees as comfortably as we can while expanding the ministry to as many people as possible. Mr. Clayburn started the ministry several years ago through radio broadcasting. He engaged several ministers in the process. Some of them worked out pretty well, and some didn’t. However, now he is recognizing that television is the coming thing, and it will be important to expand into television ministry as soon as possible. The problem is that, although a person might be excellent in a radio format, they may not do well in visual broadcast. There are a lot of factors to consider. You, Pastor Dennison, happened to show up at just the right time, and I think you have what it takes to handle the cameras. A little over a year ago, Mr. Clayburn charged me with the task of locating some possible candidates to serve in the television ministry. When I was informed about your revival, and it was so close to Memphis, I was delighted at the opportunity to come hear you speak. As I have told you, I was quite impressed.”

“I don’t know why people are impressed with me, really,” I said, glancing away. At the time, I had mixed feelings about personal praise. My ego loved the attention, but I constantly told myself to be humble and that it was God doing the work through me. It wasn’t me, but when Jesus had told me that I was His Word, I knew it meant I was to speak His Word, teach what He taught. Whether it meant staying home and preaching in little country churches or speaking on television and radio, part of me knew I had the calling.

“Well, you obviously have a gift for speaking, and for touching people’s spirit,” she countered. “What first got you interested in the ministry?”

“You know my daddy is a minister, and that gave me my first interest.” I was feeling a little more comfortable with her by that time. So I went on to tell her more. “I began having dreams when I was about ten years old. Over the years they became more intense. In my second dream, I saw Jesus crucified on the side of our barn. There is a redheaded woman in all my dreams. In that dream, she was crying at the feet of Jesus, and blood was running down the side of the barn. Then Jesus shouted to me, ‘You are My Word.’ I told Daddy about my dreams and that they were telling me I was called to preach. Still, he didn’t want me to preach, and I never got my first chance till he was so sick one Sunday he couldn’t get out of bed. Momma sent me to do the Sunday service in his place. I think I was seventeen at the time. That wasn’t too long before you came up to our church revival.”

“Why didn’t your father want you to preach?” she asked.

My face went bloodred. I could feel it. My cheeks went hot with embarrassment. I darted a glance out the window at a big truck that was turning through the parking lot. I glanced over to the people sitting on the other side of the café. Suddenly, all the sounds in the café, people talking, dishes clanging, became deafening to me. I felt my breath quicken. What was I going to tell her? My mind was racing when she broke the evil spell of my anxiety.