Courting Hope. Jenna Mindel
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“I don’t know. I’m trying to figure it out. What’s a little preschool going to do for this church?”
Hope felt her hackles rise, but she feared letting him know how much this little preschool meant to her. “It’s all in that file. The preapproval for a commercial loan, the bids. Once the pledged money is collected, we should be able to break ground.”
“This is old data. The preapproval expired. The circumstances changed the day your previous minister left.”
“But Judy—”
“She’s in favor of the preschool. Some of the other board members aren’t so sure.”
Hope gripped the edge of the chair. Judy hadn’t described it quite that way. “Why do we need a youth pastor when we have a gracious couple who volunteer? Our teens are a very small group, and we’re not even in town.”
“That’s true.”
“The enrollment projections for a preschool were conservative, but there are a lot of young families in the area who responded favorably to sending their kids.”
“There are good day cares around here.”
Hope forced a deep breath. “We’re talking about early education from a Christian worldview. There’s a huge difference.”
“I know you put a lot of work into this. You were a big part of the project committee and kept the ball rolling, from what I heard. What I don’t know is why it’s so important to you.”
“Because I have a degree in early childhood education and I want to run that preschool.” She’d let the words slip out before she could catch them.
Understanding spread across his face, but then his brow furrowed. “Makes sense.”
What didn’t make sense was that she’d let him know her dream before she could trust him with it. Trust was a moot point with Sinclair Marsh. He’d always done what he wanted.
A quick knock on the doorway of his office saved Sinclair from having to elaborate any further. A tall, barrel-chested man stood in the doorway.
“Hey, Chuck.”
“Am I interrupting?” Chuck Stillwell, board member, large commercial cherry grower and the church’s biggest financial supporter, stepped into Sinclair’s office.
“Not at all. We’re done here.” Hope bounced out of her chair and left the room.
* * *
Sinclair watched her walk away as if she couldn’t leave fast enough. Refocusing his attention on Chuck, he asked, “What can I do for you?”
Chuck closed the office door. “Do you mind?”
“Of course not.” What else could he say?
“Your message was a little strong last night.”
He braced himself for the complaint Hope had predicted he’d receive. “It’s easy to forget how sheltered we are up here.”
Chuck looped his hands around one knee and leaned back in his chair. “That’s not where I was going. The truth isn’t always comfortable, but sometimes it has to be said. Can I be blunt?”
Again he nodded. He wouldn’t expect anything less from the guy, who was something of a blowhard.
“I know you’ve got a heart for missions. And that’s good. But I’m interested in what goes on in this community, not some faraway place. I want to save you the trouble of asking me to support your school in Haiti, or any foreign missions for that matter.”
Sinclair forced his mouth closed before he said something he’d regret. He had to think like a pastor now and respond the same way. In bible school, the motto had been that good pastors didn’t react—they listened.
He sat a little straighter. “I hear you.”
Chuck’s eyes narrowed. “Hearing is fine, but doing is better. I get hit up for money all the time. I don’t need my minister looking to me for a donation every time I turn around.”
“Fair enough.” He’d never ask the guy for a dime.
“But the idea of a youth center to bring in teens isn’t bad. I’d like to get my nephew up here as soon as he graduates from bible school. He’d be a big help to you as a youth pastor.”
Sinclair knew where this was going, and it registered why Chuck had pounced on his suggestion of a youth center. “What about the preschool? It’s been approved before, and many, including you, have already pledged financial support.”
“Until you’ve collected those pledges, I say we keep our options open.”
Nice tangle. Sinclair could push for Hope’s preschool or succumb to Chuck’s pressure for a youth center to validate hiring a youth pastor—namely, Chuck’s nephew.
He spotted the building project file on his desk and nearly sighed. Either way, he’d let someone down.
Chapter Three
Sunday morning, Sinclair stood by the kitchen sink with a cup of coffee in hand. Staring out at the sloping cherry orchard, he noticed that the fruit had grown since he’d come home. The straw-colored cherries were ripening, and promised an early harvest.
The trees on higher ground had been torn up by the storm that had rolled through the area, stripping many of their crop. A few random cherry clumps still hung in odd spots, making it look like a giant hand had swiped many away.
The hand of God? He didn’t know.
Sinclair didn’t understand why bad things happened to good people. Bad choices were one thing, and he’d made plenty. But an act of nature? How did that fit? The earthquake in Haiti that had bound him there had been so devastating and senseless. And yet he’d witnessed incredible faith through the darkest times. Reflecting on that faith had the power to humble him still.
What he faced now wasn’t so bad.
He’d been up since dawn, and it was still early. No one else was awake. He’d prayed, gone over his notes and then prayed some more. The nerves hadn’t gone away. This would be his first Sunday message as a pastor. He’d delivered sermons before but never with the responsibility that came with shepherding a flock. He sure hoped he got this one right.
Hearing footsteps on the side porch, he turned as the door opened. Adam Peece, Eva’s fiancé, walked inside, followed by Ryan. Both were dressed for work in the field.
“Sinclair.” Adam nodded. “That coffee up for grabs?”
“Help yourself.” He watched his younger brother focus on retying the shoelaces of his work boots. “You guys are out early. What’s up?”
“Trimming the sweet cherries in the orchard. Eva thinks we should open it for pick-your-own cherries since the entire block came through the storm perfectly.”
“Need help?”
“We got it.” Ryan stood tall, using his six-foot-plus height to intimidate.
Sinclair didn’t look away. He might be half a head shorter at only five eleven, but Sinclair was tired of the dodge game they’d played since he’d come home. He was sick of Ryan shutting him out by keeping conversation at a minimum.
Adam stepped in. “I could use all the help I can get. If you’ve got time before church.”
“I’ve got time. Give me a minute to change.” Setting down his cup, Sinclair headed for the stairs.
It was barely six, and his service didn’t start until ten. Sunday school classes had fallen off during the year Three Corner Community Church had gone without a permanent pastor. There was no need for him to arrive before nine. A couple hours working in the field