13

DAVID SET THE LADDER into the back of his work truck, then the two boxes of marquee letters. Drove slowly across the undulating parking lot.

His mind was troubled, his heart heavy. Janelle Vonn. He had no words for what had happened. Such a sweet girl. The limitless cruelty of man. He would have to address it in his message Sunday. Without a doubt. And that was the day after tomorrow. How?

He thought of the Wolfman Terry Neemal. And the chill that had shuddered through him when he first looked into Neemal’s tan eyes from outside the protective custody cell at O.C. Jail. The man gave off waves of madness. But that was why David performed his jail ministry for the last eight years. To keep him in touch with the unfortunate and the misunderstood. Neemal didn’t belong on the same planet as Janelle, thought David. An unholy thought. So wrong. All of it.

David looked out at the up-slanted parking pads that had once allowed visitors to watch movies without straining their necks. Halfway across the parking lot he braked, put the truck into park, and looked back at the new chapel.

The building was simple and functional. To David it was magnificent. To grow in five quick years from a congregation of twenty-seven to nine hundred and fifty-two was a miracle. Literally. While Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) attendance dropped almost 3 percent adjusted for the birthrate, the Grove Drive-In Church of God was flush with capital improvement and well on its way to paying off its loan.

The new chapel seated four hundred and thirty-eight, more with folding chairs on Easter and Christmas Eve. Stained glass in three directions. An epic triptych covering the Creation, the Life of Jesus, and the Resurrection. A handsome altar and pulpit. Wonderful sound system and acoustics. Gently curving maple pews to fit the gentle curve of the big room. Plenty of light, man-made and God-made. Dark green carpet with a pattern of small orange chevrons. Two Sunday worship services in the morning at eight-thirty and eleven. An evening service at dusk. Drive in. Walk in. Come as you are.

No more offering boxes to lug in from the exits. There was now a small offering box on every speaker stanchion. No rented organ and player. No more low snack bar ceilings or snack bar smells.

David turned away from the new chapel, thought back to the morning that Janelle had come to worship. Drugged and dirty. Debased. He thought of the distance she had traveled in the five years since. Her growth and maturity. Her intelligence and curiosity and beauty coming through. Blooming. No drugs or booze, for a while at least. Miss Tustin. The runs to Baja to help the poor. Then the Playboy scandal. Always sexually adventurous. Lord, what you put her through. Now this.

He looked out at the new speakers and parking spots that now made room for three hundred and fifty vehicles. And the new outside worship garden that seated fifty more worshipers during the clement months. And the playground for the kids.

All of this upon the newly laid asphalt parking surface painted a comforting shade of sky blue. David and one of his deacons cleaned the entire lot at sunrise every Sunday morning before services using two loud street sweepers donated by the City of Garden Grove. Those, and untold donated gallons of Orange Sunshine-a new asphalt cleaning product developed by Roger Stoltz’s RoMar Industries. The product was actually made from the waste products of orange groves removed for development. It had a mild acidic action that cleaned asphalt beautifully without breaking it down. And a clean citrus smell. Orange County, then twenty-four other counties in eight other states, had contracted to purchase enough of it over the next four years to make Stoltz a comfortable man.

But it was difficult, thought David, to find much joy in sky blue asphalt, with the body of Janelle desecrated like that. How could he even approach that event in a sermon designed to be uplifting? Or at least cathartic?

David leaned his head on the steering wheel of the new Chevy. Prayed hard. For wisdom and understanding and words. Give me the words, dear Lord. For my business and yours.

Then he opened his eyes and looked up at the most impressive improvement that God had allowed him so far. The sole surviving movie screen was no longer a monstrous eyesore, but a hand-painted color panorama of the raising of Lazarus. Brilliant. Breathtaking. Awe-inspiring. David had commissioned the artists to enlarge and replicate the famous Rembrandt in every possible detail. The newspapers and TV had had a field day with it-three hundred and eleven days to complete. Four artists. Modern-day Michelangelo-Rembrandts hanging from scaffolds while they painted a twenty-foot Christ on a ninety-foot movie screen. Once-dead Lazarus with the breath of life blown back into him. Six months ago, early the first morning after the painting was complete, he’d taken pregnant Barbara and their two other children out to see The Raising of Lazarus in the clean light of dawn. The children had fidgeted. Barbara had noted the chill of the morning. David had slipped quietly to his knees and prayed.

David put the truck in gear and drove through the exit. He’d had a new marquee built just four months ago, a larger and brighter model. Purchased Roman-style letters, the most biblical-looking ones he could find. In black. They went beautifully with the neon Grove Drive-In Church of God sign above, an indigo blue cross draped by a garland of bright oranges with light green leaves.

He parked next to the marquee. Got out and looked up at the pithy slogan he displayed each week, just under the “Sunday’s Message” announcement. These short statements were often harder for him to come up with than an entire sermon. He subscribed to Independent Ministries magazine, which supplied dozens each month for ministers in a pinch. But this one was David’s own:

Offer the Lord what’s right, not what’s left

Above it was the sermon title made irrelevant by the death of Janelle Vonn.

KEEPING YOUR HEART YOUNG THROUGH GOD’S LOVE

He set up the ladder, took down what letters he could reach. Moved the ladder and took down more. Stood there a minute when he was done and remembered all those years ago, how the marquee had bothered him so much. Because he feared it was just like his future: empty.

How silly that fear had been. His life was full. His ministry. His health. Barbara. Two children of their own and one adopted.

Emptiness is Janelle Vonn. No. Emptiness is who did that to her.

David got a Bible from the cab, then swung down the tailgate and sat. The morning was warm and clear, no breeze. He could see the cars out on busy Beach Boulevard, just one street over from the church.

He still had two days to write the message, but only one hour left to get its title onto the marquee. He turned to the Song of Solomon, looking for inspiration, comfort, and a title.

With great delight I sat in his shadow,

and his fruit was sweet to my taste…

O that his left hand were under my head,

and his right hand embraced me!

No, not that. He sighed, rubbed his temples, tried Psalms. Then Matthew, then Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians.

All he needed was a title. So people would know his topic for this Sunday. What few words could do justice to a young woman, bright and lovely and troubled and murdered before she had had enough time to truly live a life?

Who had trusted him with her secrets as he had trusted her with his?

Then it came to him. First heard at the Sandpiper a few months ago, in the company of Janelle Vonn. From heaven through Jesse Black to David and his marquee: