Obedience can overcome ruinous choices, and with the repentance of wicked ways, God’s faithful forgiveness and mercies never fail.
Set
in the afterglow of the Azusa Street Revival, this epic addition to the Texas
Romance family saga sweeps through three decades of triumphs and tragedies—from
the Texas Hill Country to the beaches of Normandy and beyond.
The
faithful flock to his father’s revival tent where Buddy Nightingale leads
praise and worship, but like King David, the young psalmist battles a
generational curse, lust. On his first night back in Marble Falls, Texas—the
place he heard the angels sing fifteen years prior—he beholds Sandra Harris, a
beauty attending strictly for the entertainment of the Spirit-filled meeting.
Love strikes both, but her Church of Christ father wants no part of any holy
roller—not for his daughter.
Sometimes
choices we make take us places we never intend to go, but God . . .
~~
Chief of Sinners
by Caryl McAdoo
Chapter One
Fall 1926
God always tests
His sons.
From Adam
on, He’s required absolute obedience from those He calls to greatness.
Such a
man, Broderick Eversole Nightingale, known to all as Buddy, came into the world
in the afterglow of the Azusa Street Revival. From his earliest memories, his
father preached and practiced the power of the Holy Ghost while his saintly
mother led the singing under the canvas canopy of the family’s traveling Gospel
meetings.
Buddy’s
first test came at the age of ten when his mother fell deathly ill. He never
dreamed to blame God when she went home. But
his father did. And for that first year after she left, the Reverend Nathaniel
Nightingale drowned his sorrow in moonshine.
Broke of
heart and pocketbook, the boy’s father returned to the only solace he knew,
preaching the Good News. Though he no longer invited people to come be healed,
reports of past miracles and his fiery oratories always kept the revival tent
full.
The
second test came fourteen months later in a small Texas Hill Country community.
That fateful day started like so many others.
After
obtaining their permit, the Nightingales pulled into the fairgrounds, unloaded
their tent, and began work. By midmorning,
they had the canvas spread and the poles up.
Buddy
held the first peg while his father tap-started it. He stood back. Five whacks
later, he tied off the guy rope then scooted to the next peg. A second passed
before he squinted against the sun and looked up at his dad.
For
October, the day heated unseasonably warm, and the old reverend’s face
glistened with sweat as he leaned on the double-headed
mallet.
“What’s
the matter, old man? Not getting tired, are you?”
“Who you
calling old?”
Buddy
smiled. “Here, let me have that thing. I wouldn’t want the great Nathaniel
Nightingale too tuckered to preach tonight.”
“Have at
it.”
Finding
his spot, Buddy tap-started another peg then stood back and eyeballed the alignment. Perfect. Slowly he
raised the oversized wooden hammer, held it a second over his head, then pulled
down hard.
The
hickory head hit the peg a glancing blow, and the mallet slipped from his
hands. The stake flew one direction, the hammer another.
His dad
laughed. “You practice a while, Little Man. I need a drink.”
Buddy
restarted the peg and a dozen blows later
had it in place. He tied off the rope then stepped back. Another fifteen pegs
and the tent would be finished. Sure hoped coming to this one-horse town would
be worth it.
The Lord
knew they needed the money. He worked steadily setting the pegs.
“You not
finished yet?”
He
glanced up at his father. “Mine are all done, but some of yours need a little
attention.”
The elder
nodded. “Oh, I see how you are. Give me that mallet, boy. We’re burning
daylight.”
An hour
later, the wooden hammer slammed down on the last peg. Mopping his brow with
his handkerchief, the old man flipped him a half-dollar.
“Get you some dinner, Son. I'm going to catch some shut-eye.”
He
pocketed the coin then tied off the last rope. Hands on his hips, he admired
their work. The patch-on-patch tent didn't look half bad. It’d last until they
could afford a new one—maybe Mama’s next royalty check—provided the old man
stopped giving away the tent money.
Working
his way toward the square, Buddy nailed up flyers, then blew a dime of his
dinner money on a Moon Pie and Coca-Cola.
Marble Falls looked like a dozen other towns where his father had pitched the
tent in the last year.
Figured
if expenses got covered, it'd be a miracle.
A brand
new ’26 Ford Coupe bouncing down Main Street caught his eye. Maybe there was
some money to be had there after all. He decided to forget lunch and finish
passing out the flyers.
The
nicest homes surrounded the center of the Texas town, as in most rural
communities. Buddy skipped the first two streets, walking outward, since the
well-to-do usually didn't truck with Holiness folks.
Episcopalians
and Presbyterians looked down their noses at Pentecostals, while the more rigid
Baptists and Methodists didn't look at all, preferring to pretend holy rollers
simply didn't exist, not as a real church anyway.
Experience
taught him the farther away from the square, the more receptive the people.
He gave
away his last flyer and headed to the campgrounds
where he busied himself arranging crates and two-by-twelve planks used for pews.
The setup wasn't fancy, but that wasn't what God’s children came for.
The old
man claimed they came for more reasons than Buddy understood.
A bit
before dusk, he lit the Coleman lanterns that hung from every other tentpole.
His
stomach reminded him he’d only had a Moon Pie for lunch. He’d check the larder
in the trailer. Judging by changes of hues in the orange and golden sky, should
be time to fix something before he woke the old man.
Buddy
ignored the snores and rummaged through the cupboard. A can of sardines, almost
a whole line of crackers, and a fried pie later, he peeked out the curtain.
Half a dozen cars and two wagons littered the gravel lot beyond the tent.
Not bad.
The
faithful were coming. Hopefully, they brought some folding money in their bib
overalls.
The
rhythmic snorting and huffing echoed across the little trailer. A good long nap
always meant a fiery sermon, and nothing touched a believer's purse like hell
fire and brimstone. He peeked again.
A car's
headlights illuminated a fair amount of foot traffic.
Better
get the reverend up and at it. Time was a wasting. He poked his father. “Hey,
sleepyhead, time for church.”
The elder
Nightingale turned to the wall. “Leave me alone.”
“Come on,
Dad. The tent’s getting full.”
The
reverend rolled over. “Tell ’em I'm sick.”
“Get up.”
He shook him. “They’re coming to see you, the great Nathaniel Nightingale,
renowned miracle worker and faith healer.”
Nothing.
And
mocking always got a rise.
Buddy
sniffed then held his nose close to his father's mouth. “Oh, good grief.”
He rolled
him over. An empty Mason jar wedged between the bed and the wall slipped a
notch.
“What am
I supposed to do now?” He grabbed his father's shoulders and shook hard. “What
have you gone and done? Get up.”
Twice more
he shook and shouted, but didn't even get an ‘I'm sick’ from his dad. Buddy
checked out the little window again. The tent was full, and folks were milling
about. He had to face them, tell them something.
Faith
healers weren't supposed to get sick.
Slowly,
he changed into his meeting clothes, letting his mind run through a list of
possible excuses.
If he'd
only known.
Of course
he should have figured it out.
Mercy! He
straightened his string tie, threw his shoulders back like his mother had
taught him, and sallied forth to meet the throng. His stomach growled.
The tent,
overflowing, buzzed with a quiet chatter.
Oh, how
he wanted to take his usual place in the back and wait for his cue to throw
down the hat, which really was an old Stetson. The old man claimed some rancher
left it in one of his first tent meetings. Put it to good use ever since.
But he
couldn't go to the back this time.
They came
expecting a show, some maybe to hear God's Word preached. Buddy hated to tell
them otherwise.
So much
for breaking even.
All that
work for nothing.
Slipping
through the tent's back flap, he jumped up on the small platform—no more than
three two-by-four frames with more planks on top. The crowd noise abated then
finally died. Every eye in the house looked stuck on him.
Oh Lord,
what am I gonna do?
Hesitating
only a second, with his heart about to beat right out of his chest, he
swallowed hard. “Folks?” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat and spoke
louder. “Evening, folks.” He walked to the edge of the well-worn boards.
“Just
over two years ago, my mama died birthing my little sister.”
What
could he say to make them understand?
Overwhelmed,
he wiped a real tear off his cheek. Buddy never asked to be up there in front.
“Today.” He swallowed, but it took great effort. “It would’ve been my parents’
twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.”
To
swallow kept getting harder. It amazed him that he was telling all those
strangers private family business. “My dad . . . he thought he could preach
tonight, but—” His lip quivered, and a lump clogged his throat.
Stepping
back, he looked out over the tops of people's heads and hats.
What came
next?
A
strange, pleasant tingling began in the small of his back then spread up his
spine. Before he figured out what the sensation might be, it filled him,
encompassed him.
A golden
mist fell from the tent's roof like a heavy fog.
Mesmerized
him. He’d never seen such a thing.
It
covered the congregation, then a peace settled over his heart, slowing its
pounding.
One
crystal clear note sounded in his head.
A
thousand voices in perfect harmony followed. The song danced through his soul
until he became one with it. Almost unaware, he tried to hold back the music,
wanting to listen longer.
But it
bubbled forth. And he sang.
Not one
of the tired old hymns his father loved so much.
A new
song. One like his mother used to sing.
The mist
lifted while he sang, but he couldn't quit. Didn't want to stop. At first, the people only sat and watched,
wide-eyed—like a treed ringtail caught in a spotlight.
Then a young girl in the back caught the chorus and joined in.
Soon the
whole tent erupted with the song.
When that
tune finished, another sprang from that secret place the mist had opened.
Oblivious
to everything but the melody in his soul, he sang, and the congregation
followed. Hours later, must have sung three dozen songs, the floodgate finally closed.
What had
happened? He couldn’t believe it.
Never in
his twelve years had he heard the likes of such music. And it’d come out of his
mouth.
Buddy let
the last note drift away, not knowing what to say or do next, so . . . he only
stared at the people. They stared back. Amazement etched most faces, but it
soon disappeared. A few folks in the back drifted into the night.
One man
with a little girl draped over his shoulder, sound asleep, eased forward. When
the farmer reached the little platform, he shifted his daughter, fumbled in his
pocket, then tossed several bills at Buddy's feet.
Before he
knew it, others followed the man’s example, and a small pile of greenbacks covered his boots.
When the
last person left the tent, the peace left Buddy's soul. Doubt and self-loathing took its place. Somehow, he
tricked those folks. Not on purpose. But he definitely hadn't given them what
they came for.
All he’d
done was sing a few songs. In the morning, when the town folk realized what
happened, they’d want their money back.
Quickly,
he crammed the bills into his shirt and ran to the trailer.
“Hey, old
man.” Buddy shook his father's shoulder. “We gotta get out of here.”
“What?”
The elder Nightingale opened one eye. “Give me another forty winks. I'm sick,
Son.”
Buddy
tried twice more to rouse him then gave up. He would have to do it by himself.
Methodically,
he went about gathering the planks and crates and disassembling the platform,
loading it as he went. He packed the Coleman lanterns and arranged the wood
along the bottom of the truck like he had done a hundred times before.
Though
never by himself.
The
urgency to get away increased with each task he completed. Every few minutes,
he glanced around expecting to see an angry mob descending on him, demanding
their money back.
The sun
broke over the eastern horizon just as he untied the first support rope. Using
the wooden mallet, he hit the tent peg to the side then yanked on it. Thing
wouldn't budge. He whopped it again and
pulled with all his might. Nothing.
“Mercy.”
Stepping
back, he swung full force against the peg.
The
mallet struck a glancing blow, slipped out of his hands, and sailed toward the
trailer. Slamming into the sheet metal, it missed the window but put a good-sized dent right
between it and the door.
Frustration
boiled over. He kicked the immovable peg
then hopped a circle on one foot. Pain racked his big toe.
What
should he do? He had to get out of there.
Tears
welled, but he stubbornly wiped them away. Crying sure wouldn't help any. He
had to get those blasted pegs up and the tent down before the people came
back—be gone before his deceit became known.
“Mercy,
boy.”
Buddy
wheeled around. His father stood in the trailer's door. “What in Heaven's name
are you doing?”
“Please,
Dad. Help me get this tent down. We've got to get out of here.”
Rumpled
and needing a shave, the elder lumbered toward him. “What are you talking
about? We just got here. Why would we want to leave so soon?”
Between
glances over his shoulder, Buddy explained what had happened the night before.
When he finished, he grabbed the tent peg again and pulled. “We've got to
hurry. It's daylight, and they'll be here any minute.”
The old
man grabbed him and pulled him to his chest. “No one's coming after their
money, Son.” His voice cracked.
Was he
going to cry?
“Everything's
fine.” He cleared his throat. “Sounds like God gave you a gift last night.
Confirmed it with this cash. Lord, I wish I could have seen it.”
Buddy
pulled away.
If only
he could believe what the old man said. “Nuh-uh. You're the one with the gift.
Even Mama said so. They'll be here any minute, wanting it all back.” Did his
dad know for sure? “Won’t they?”
“Nope.
Listen to me, Son. You didn't trick anyone. When folks give their money to the
Lord, they never ask for it back.”
“You mean
all that cash . . . is ours?”
“Sure is.
Ain't the Lord good?”
Visions
of new shoes and store-bought shirts danced through Buddy's head. All that money, and all he did was sing a few songs.
“Wow,
Dad. You think maybe they'll come back tonight? I could sing some more.”
“Absolutely.”
His father wrapped an arm around his shoulder. “I'm sure of it, Son.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Caryl McAdoo prays her
story brings God glory, and a quick scroll through her novels’ rankings by
Christian readers attests to the Father’s faithfulness. She loves writing
almost as much as singing the new songs He gives her—look her up on YouTube to
hear a few. Her high school sweetheart husband won her heart fifty-one years
ago, and now they share four children and seventeen grandsugars. Ron and Caryl
live in the woods south of Clarksville, seat of Red River County in far
Northeast Texas, waiting expectantly for God to open the next door.
Links :
Author Pages:
Author Pages:
BookGorilla - http://www.bookgorilla.com/author/B00E963CFG/caryl-mcadoo
Southern Writers Magazine - http://authors.southernwritersmagazine.com/caryl-mcadoo.html
Southern Writers Magazine - http://authors.southernwritersmagazine.com/caryl-mcadoo.html
Sweet Americana Sweethearts - bit.ly/2q0tcfFbit.ly
(All First Chapters offered here)
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC_1hQx6UZbWi3OYwmKKxh6Q
(Hear Caryl sing her New Songs!)
Blogs:
The Word & the Music XXXXX
The Word & the Music XXXXX
Stitches Thru Time (Misc.) - http://www.StitchesThruTime.blogspot.com
Sweet Americana Sweethearts (Historical) -
http://www.SweetAmericanaSweethearts.blogspot.com
GoodReads: http://tinyurl.com/GoodReadsCaryl
LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/caryl-mcadoo-00562323
Puzzle: http://www.jigsawplanet.com/?rc=play&pid=1635910626b6
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