Oh, no! Katelyn thought to herself, another emergency, and the most knowledgeable person in the church is now lying prostrate on the basement floor. As pastor, she must rush to his side and administer condolences, and this she did without pausing. He had fallen on a thick, broad stack of old hymnals, so his fall had been broken. But so were his spirits. As she lifted his grizzled head into her ample lap she leaned closer to hear him say, “Rescue the perishing, care for the dying.”

“You are not dying!” Katelyn reassured him (hoping it was true), but he seemed to have collapsed in her arms, his head resting against her breast like a little child. Katelyn continued to soothe him and caress his head as she felt in her jeans pocket for her cell phone and flipped it open to call 911. Fortunately, her call went through immediately.

While his pastor cradled their fallen friend, Raynor continued his investigation, and the other two pulled aside the heavy pleats of burlap that curtained the basement windows, only to discover that the ancient glass was covered with a dirty haze. The sunlight outside was bright that day, however, and it brought more out of the shadows in the long-disused subterranean enclosure under the church sanctuary. Raynor methodically tapped, lighted, checked, analyzed, and noted every crack and crevice as he made his way around the walls and searched the ceiling of the whole basement.

The Fire Department was only a few blocks away, but it seemed a long wait before someone arrived. Little by little the church parking lot above filled with vehicles: an ambulance for George, a generator for some lighting, miscellaneous cars and trucks—first the medics and firemen, and then the people who gathered to watch what they hoped would be a dramatic rescue.

The basement was now flooded with light as the Emergency Medical Service crew made its way into the basement. And little by little, the watchers at the top of the stairs grew in size. First the burly firemen arrived, followed by the medics who checked George for vital signs before Joe picked up the little man from the cold floor in his muscular arms and placed him tenderly on the portable gurney. George looked something like a rag doll as he was carried out by the powerful young firemen. However, as he passed her, Katelyn could hear a faint singing from George: “in the arms of my dear savior…”

“Don’t worry, George,” Katelyn reassured him as she whispered a short prayer over him. “I’ll be down to see you in the hospital as soon as we are finished in the basement.” George laid his head back in the massive arms, and Joe and the medical crew backed the onlookers up the stairs as they headed toward the ambulance. Soon he was loaded (supervised by the group who had dropped everything when the emergency vehicles had whizzed past their doors). The ambulance worked its way through the crowd and rushed him to the local hospital down mountain.

Several of the EMS crew stayed, presumably to help with the lighting—and watch the fascinating procedure. Most of those present had not seen this part of the church, which appeared to have been closed off for a decade or more. Raynor had coaxed the damaged wires from their place, checked for leaking pipes, and continued to look around for further damage.

There was a large concrete slab at the bottom of the stairway, and most of the antiquated church furniture from earlier in the century was set against the walls there. The basement ran the length and width of the sanctuary above it, but the further reaches of the area (under the pulpit and stage) revealed only beaten earth and rocks—with several large boulders indicating why the slab was not larger.

Raynor walked around the whole room, checking each wall for cracks or damage. Katelyn followed in his wake, rounding the largest boulder—which the earthquake seemed to have jarred—and shining her tiny light upon it. Suddenly her eye caught a few red beads at its base.

She shifted the red beads a little with her shoe and then bent down to examine them. The cord upon which the beads had been strung had long since disappeared, but she could tell it was a necklace or bracelet, and she continued to brush aside the loose dirt and remove the stones that had fallen in the area. Finally, there emerged something she never thought she would see in her entire life as a pastor: she had uncovered the long bone of the tiny arm that had once worn the bracelet. Unknowingly, she had been recovering artifacts from a grave.

The sun glinted on the small cross that stood (a little crookedly) atop the pinnacle of the small white chapel. A heritage plaque proclaimed the chapel to be First Church of Corinth, California. Katelyn Zyker had arrived at the church—her first pastorate—just as the sun was rising. It seemed to waken the village to another bright day in mid-September. She wanted to walk through the whole of the church property—bow to stern—before traffic outside made that idea impossible to carry out.

A commanding figure, easily 5′ 10″ with a sturdy build, Katelyn relished her new position of grace and service. She realized that she was young and inexperienced, but she had so much to give. Her beautiful face with flashing green eyes and tight black curls in long tresses that cascaded down her back completed her stately look. She looked out the eastern windows behind the pulpit of the chapel—watching the September sun rise from behind the dense but newly bare trees. She realized once again that this church was like a ship, moored in a very small, triangular berth, at the entrance to the harbor of this tiny, mountain village. The church was built more than 80 years ago at the juncture of two main roads that led into the mountain community. Its property—just outside these windows—ended in a point only a few yards beyond their frames.

Both the road up the mountain from the City and the road that ran through the village and round the lake had grown larger and busier, and the church property between them had shrunk, as had its influence on the village. It was now a quaint little chapel, no longer a signal of welcome to all who passed, more like a relic from the past. The property on the other side of the highway—where the horses of the church members had once grazed—had been bought up and built on long ago. Across the busy, two-lane highway on the other side of the church were Cindy’s Café and the first commercial buildings of the center of a growing resort village.

It had been an ideal location in those early days—a vanguard to the community, a beacon of God’s love to this resort town and its visitors. But now, as the commercial district of the mountain village encroached, it had been crowded onto this cramped property and ignored for decades. The First Church was now wedged tightly into this inert triangle with only a small chapel, a few offices at the rear of the building, a parking lot that would hold only a dozen cars, and an A-frame manse at the back of the lot. There was no room to grow.

She gazed meditatively at the sagging roof of the bungalow across the road on the residential side. When the horses could be left in that open woods to find grass as they could during services, the church could have filled all of its pews. Now there was too little parking space, and dozens of weekend tourists driving into town would have to be stopped while church members poured onto the highway after services. Unthinkable!

No matter how well she preached, the people could not come to hear—it was far too difficult. Even if the church had a special Christmas program—where would the people park? How could they make their way across busy highways? Where could the children be cared for during services?

She faced an unworkable situation regardless of the possibilities and the solutions she might propose. The size and circumstances of the congregation made it obvious that they had been sitting quietly for decades as the town grew around them, encroaching on their property as they became quieter and less active. Pastors had come and gone—few staying more than two winters—and the pastoral vacancy had been open for more than two years when Katelyn had accepted the position. Clearly they expected her to join them in their vigil—inert and unexpectant. Unfortunately—or fortunately—this was not Katelyn’s style. The idea of preaching really dull sermons and providing poor pastoral care, thus driving people away, never occurred to her.

Katelyn turned away from the bright windows—wondering again at the sun’s bright glory as it rose—and entered the dark recesses of the church building. Fortunately, she believed, God could come into these tight, shadowed cloisters where the sun could not. Love and joy will enter here. She descended the few steps at the back of the chapel, turned on a weak bulb that dangled hazardously from a wire in the ceiling, and gazed quietly about the big, dark enclosure. Hmmm, she said to herself, but no ideas came.

Check this web site next week for more excerpts!

Please Note:  All materials that appear on this web site are donated material. They are all under copyright. Please respect all copyright laws. The novel you are reading is being written as you read: a published book will be ready within the year. None of the material in Autumn Secrets may be copied or disbursed for any reason. Please email Bonnie Meadows with any questions at bonnietexas at hotmail.com. Thank you.

The opening chapters appear above, and further segments from the book will be appearing on this web site in the coming weeks. Come visit again! 

We would like to hear from you. This novel is a work in progress, and even the title may not be the final one, so we would like to know what you think and what you are curious about. We are also looking for interesting, real stories about incidents you have personally witnessed. All of the characters and all of the events that drive the plot are imaginary; however, other incidents (like the mountain lion visit) have really happened in the area over the past few years. If you know about an interesting incident that might be included in one of the books, please share them (and receive a discount on the purchase of a book). Email your ideas in the body of the message to bonnietexas at hotmail.com. 

Let us know as well if you would like to purchase a copy. A published copy will be available in the coming year.

Further books are coming as well. There are five books in this series. All of these books relate the experiences of five current women who share their lives as they attend seminary together and become new pastors.  Although all the characters are fictional, some of the events they experience are real. Their stories haven't been written yet because they haven't yet happened. Visit this web site often for more information.

Pastor's Book of Secrets

Autumn Secrets—Secrets of First Corinthians—Katelyn's Story
Winter Secrets—Secrets of James—Lydia's Story
Spring Secrets—Secrets of Acts—Joanna's Story
Summer Secrets—Epistolary Secrets—Elanor's Story
Seminary Secrets—Melody's Story