Pulpit Dreams.

Wilf S. was on tap to preach the sermon one hot, summer Sunday evening. We'd worked up a sweat singing every verse of all four hymns posted on the song board and now, sitting beneath the steady draught of stifling air pushed down upon us by the dully roaring ceiling fans, we waited to hear what God had placed on Wilf's heart. Being a somewhat cynical and bored fifteen-year-old, I didn't have high expectations. Likely he would reminisce - again - about his life as a missionary in Nigeria. We would start in the Bible but I was pretty sure we'd end up in Africa. Dressed in a non-descript, brown, polyester suit (which must have been absolutely sweltering to wear) Wilf crossed the stage to the pulpit and placed his Bible upon it. The microphone loudly transmitted every sniff, breath, rustle of paper, moistening of lips, and swallow that constituted the preamble to Wilf's first words. Finally, he began, and the quiet, monotonous drone of his monologue soon had me counting ceiling tiles. Ten minutes passed and then Wilf paused to consult his notes. Sweat trickled down my back. Nellie N.'s white curls waggled and bounced in the gusts of hot air descending from the fans above. Somebody coughed. The sound of passing cars filtered in through the wide-open windows. Head down, Wilf continued to study his notes. At about the thirty second mark, I began to suspect Wilf had irretrievably lost his place in his sermon. He had probably wandered off into memories of snakes, and motorcycles, and strange Nigerian customs and was unable to find his way back. I couldn't say for sure, though, being too busy counting how many times the letter "e" appeared in the first verse of "How Great Thou Art." Suddenly, Wilf's wife, Ethel, leapt up from her seat and briskly mounted the stage to stand at her spouse's side. She gripped his arm and hissed in his ear, "Wilf!" The microphone magnified every word. "Wilf! You're asleep!" With a sharp shake from his wife, Wilf snorted back to consciousness. Confusion, surprise, and embarrassment battled for supremacy on his face. A low murmur of surprise and amusement rippled across the congregation. Seeing her man fully awake, Ethel departed the stage with unabated briskness, her face utterly impassive. Wilf shuffled his notes for a bit, sighed, then closed his Bible. "Well, that's all. Let's pray." Cheering inwardly, I closed my eyes, bowed my damp head and imagined a long swig of an icy-cold Pepsi.