The pastor seemed to be almost as anxious to get out of there as I was. "If you have any other questions feel free to ask me!" the pastor said as he was putting on his jacket and reaching for his keys. I thought to myself. More questions? Egad! Right, Pastor! The next time I want to torture myself I’ll be back! I asked the Lord to forgive me as soon as I thought those ugly thoughts. But I had the feeling that the Lord would understand my frustration. I knew my dad would.
I ran at full speed to our car. I was so happy to see my dad who had been waiting patiently in the otherwise abandoned church lot. When I got into the car, Dad asked, "How did it go?"
I was trying to fight back tears. I looked out my window so my dad couldn’t see. But he knew me so well that he didn’t have to see my face to know that I was upset.
"Okay," I said in a small voice that belied my true feelings.
My dad can read my mind, I'm sure of it. Many times before, he knew exactly what my thoughts were in certain situations when my Mother had no clue at all. Not that my mother didn’t care. It was just that I was so much like my dad that we connected at some fundamental level. He knew that if I had been happy with my conversation with the Pastor, I would have been all bubbly and enthusiastic and I would have talked his ear off all the way home. Like I said, most of the time the man could read my mind! And this definitely would be one of those times.
Sensing my disappointment and wanting to comfort me, my dad tried to make me look at things from a different point of view.
"Aysha, you know when people hire me to build a house or an office building, the first thing they do is show me the blueprints from their architect.”
I kind of knew where my dad was going but I listened closely. I always liked his stories.
“After I look at their plans, they might point out some element of the design that they think will need a little extra attention. They may put the pressure on and even stress the urgency on how fast it must be done.
My dad hesitated like he always does when he tells his stories. He was letting me absorb all his words.
“But you know what they never do?”
My dad stopped again and glanced at me. I knew it was one of those questions where he didn’t expect an answer and that his hesitation was just a “dramatic” pause.
“They never tell me how to do my job. That is something they know I know how to do. Do you understand where I'm going, honey?"
"I'm not sure that I do," I said even though I did know where he was going. It was my stubborn streak rearing its ugly head. Something else I inherited from John Conora!
My dad continued, "If our car was making a noise, let's say a horrible grinding or a knocking noise that was scaring your mother to death. You know where I’d take it, don’t you? I’d take it to my mechanic, Bill Kellan. I’d tell him the little bit I knew about the problem—that it was making a horrible noise and how long it had been making that noise. I’d hand my car keys over to Bill, and let him take it from there. I wouldn't tell him what he should do to fix the problem or ask him how he happened to get his job. Are you following me yet, sweetie?"
"Yes, I think I am," I said quietly. I totally understood what Dad was trying to get across to me. We drove the rest of the way home in silence. I expect we were both kind of lost in our thoughts. I wasn’t upset with Dad at all. He always knew how to calm things down for me. But I was still bothered by my encounter with the pastor and all the way home, the thought stayed in my mind: Was I telling God how to do His job? That sure wasn’t my intention. I prayed that God didn’t think it was. What I was questioning is whether our pastor and congregation were doing the job that God wanted them to do.
That night as I lay in bed I thought about the day. After all my efforts and expectations, I still had no idea how God had chosen Pastor Shelton to be our pastor. But my mind was swirling with everything I’d read, the long conversation with the Pastor and then the things that Dad was telling me. On a logical level, I knew that what Dad had said made all kinds of sense. Maybe I shouldn’t be concerned how Pastor Shelton came to be our pastor? Maybe that was between the pastor and God and I didn’t have to know how God had chosen him. Maybe like my mother said, I wouldn’t know all the answers until I touched the face of God. Maybe I would just have to wait and ask God how Christianity was supposed to be taught.
Tossing and turning that night, I remembered a phrase that I heard all my life – Trust in God. Maybe it was a test and I had to show that I trusted in Him! I sure didn’t want to fail that test.
I had a restless night but I finally fell asleep and had a very strange dream. Not surprisingly, after hearing Dad’s story about how people trust him as a builder, I dreamed that Dad had built a tall, beautiful building and everyone admired it. People came from far and near to gaze at the wonderful structure. Hundreds of people were lining up just to shake my dad's hand or slap him on the back and congratulate him. "Well done John, it's your best job yet!" some said. Others commented that it was the most beautiful structure they had ever seen.
"Mr. Conora, could you look this way, sir?" A photographer called to him. The press was even there – reporters and photographers were surrounding him to take his picture and to get exclusive interviews from my dad.
The outside of the building was sleek and modern. The inside of the structure was stunning. The floors were made of golden tile and the staircases glimmered with gold and silver trim. The rooms were covered with plush carpeting and the crystal chandeliers glittered throughout. And to top everything else off, beautiful images of angels rising to meet our glorious Savior Jesus covered all the ceilings. My dad’s building was the most glorious looking structure anyone had ever seen. It seemed the photographers could not get enough photos, the constant click of their cameras was heard everywhere.
"Mr. Conora, could we get a picture of you and your family in front of the fountain?" a reporter asked.
"Sure!" my dad proudly replied. "Aysha, come on over here. It’s picture time!" my dad wanted me to be part of his triumph.
But as I walked over to him I happened to notice a door in the hall that was slightly ajar. As I passed it, I gazed into a small room that was nothing like the rest of the structure. It was bare all the way to its concrete blocks. Ugly wires snaked this way and that way from the walls. I detected a horrible odor and then saw that the sources of the smell were half-filled buckets of tar, sludge and some other liquid that were off in one corner. I was stunned. How could this beautiful building have such a horrid room? Did my father forget to finish it?
"Hurry up, Aysha!" I heard someone say as I stood in the room trying to figure out what had gone wrong. I knew my dad was waiting for me to join him but I didn’t want anyone else to see the horrible room. I shut the door a little harder than I intended. It slammed shut with such force that everyone stopped what they were doing and looked my way. Instead of drawing people’s attention away from the room as I intended, the noise of the slamming door had exactly the opposite effect. But as it turned out, this strange room wasn’t the only problem with the structure.
Suddenly somewhere within the building came an eerie noise—like grinding and twisting metal. Everyone was alarmed by the strange sounds. The reporters and photographers were no longer interested in taking photos and getting a scoop, they wanted to find out what was causing the noises and be able to report on a possible scandal. Things soon got even worse.
The beautiful gold-painted walls began to crack and the opulent gold-tiled floor began to buckle. Many of the visitors began to stumble as the floor buckled beneath them. I looked at my dad who was, by now, panic-stricken. In just a matter of a few minutes, my father’s triumphant success had turned into a dismal failure.
My dad was most concerned about everyone’s safety. He screamed, "EVERYONE GET OUT!" As everyone rushed out, I could hear the walls crashing behind me. I had almost made it to the exit when a beautiful painting of Jesus came crashing down from the wall. The nightmarish dream woke me up. My heart was racing but I was relieved to realize that the whole thing had been a dream.
As I thought about the dream, I suddenly realized something that I had to tell Dad about my dream! It was still dark and when I looked at my clock, I saw that it was only 4:35. But Dad’s an early-riser and I knew he would be up soon. I felt such an urgency to talk to him, that I went to the kitchen to wait for him.
