The Trouble With Angels Page 0,72

crazy man, standing in church and talking out loud to a God who refused to listen.

"You promised!" he shouted at the top of his voice. His mind rattled off all the Bible verses he'd claimed in Barbara's behalf. One by one they marched through his mind like soldiers, shoulders squared at attention. But these promises Paul had put such faith in were like miniature toy soldiers, ineffective and worthless. All his prayers, all his pleadings, had been returned to him empty.

Now the pain, the heartache, was repeating itself with Madge. Once more Paul had to sit by and watch someone he cared for suffer. He discovered, with heartfelt regret, that it wasn't any easier the second go-around.

He looked at Bernard and saw a reflection of himself, broken, beaten, battered. Hanging on by a thread, and that thread was tattered.

After a while, Paul felt foolish standing alone in the middle of the church. Alone he knew well. The church part was what made him so uncomfortable. Funny, he'd spent the better part of his life in church; now he felt as out of place as a Sunday morning golfer.

He turned around and was about to leave when he saw Leta Johnson waiting for him at the back of the church. He certainly hoped she hadn't been standing there long.

"Did you forget something?" he asked defensively, embarrassed that she'd found him this way. He reached into a pew and placed a hymn book into the proper slot.

"No. I just wanted to see if Joe and Annie made it to Eugene all right."

"He phoned last night. They're fine."

"I'm glad to hear it."

Leta wasn't one to make small talk. Generally she got right to the crux of the matter, but she seemed to be hedging now. It wasn't the first time, and he wondered what was troubling her. He stopped and waited, giving her ample time to say what she wanted.

"It's about Madge Bartelli."

"I saw Bernard," Paul told her.

"Two of her children have arrived, and a couple of the women from the church are delivering meals."

"That's a good idea." One he should have thought of himself. This was exactly the type of thing Barbara had been so good at organizing.

"I hope you don't mind."

For reasons beyond Paul's meager comprehension, Leta seemed nervous about having done this. She'd seen a need and filled it. He was grateful.

He might have thought of it himself, if he hadn't been in the middle of a mental breakdown. Imagine standing alone in church and shouting at God! Anyone, even Leta, might suggest he visit a mental health clinic. Not a bad idea in light of his actions.

"Paul." Leta's voice drifted through the fog of his murky thoughts. "Are you feeling all right?"

"I'm great," he said enthusiastically. "Really."

She looked as if she doubted him, as well she should. "I'll see you Monday morning," she said, and walked a couple of steps in reverse.

"Monday," he repeated.

Paul waited until she'd turned and left the building before he strolled out of the sanctuary and into his office. He sat on his chair and stared at the row upon row of hardback books that lined his office wall. Theology, commentaries, concordances, all able and ready to help him understand God.

It came to him, sadly, that he had no interest in divine matters. No interest in anything related to a god who allowed good women to suffer. A god who allowed husbands to stand by and watch them die, helpless to do anything but pray. Paul knew exactly where prayer had gotten him. It had carried him all the way to the cemetery.

Someone once told him that he had a choice when he buried his wife. He could either accept her death and grow and mature in his faith or turn bitter and angry toward God.

Better or bitter.

He'd tried to be better. Tried to find the good in every situation. Unfortunately he wasn't as spiritually strong as he'd assumed.

Paul rolled a clean sheet of stationery into the typewriter on his desk. The younger generation were more comfortable with computers, but he preferred an old-fashioned typewriter.

He stared at the blank page, then drew in a deep breath and wrote out his letter of resignation.

"No," Goodness cried, hovering over the bookcases above Paul Morris's head. "You can't quit. Not now."

Angels rarely wept, but Goodness had the overwhelming urge to break into heart-wrenching sobs. She'd failed him. She should never have accepted this assignment, never have agreed to help. Everything she'd done thus far had been ineffectual.

"Goodness."

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