Bad Girls of the Bible Part 19

Good Girl Thoughts Worth Considering

1. Do any of Jezebel's personality traits match your own? Are you ever strong-willed, domineering, quick to criticize, eager to take charge, slow to relinquish control, sharp-tongued, stubborn, impatient, or unwilling to admit you're wrong...ever? Which one(s) do you identify with most, and why?

2. Jezebel didn't even try to curb her nature. What proactive steps could you take to keep the above traits from dominating your own life? If this isn't you at all, is it someone you know? How could you lovingly help him or her without resorting to the same tactics yourself?

3. How can the positive aspects of a more aggressive personality-leaders.h.i.+p, courage, boldness-be used for the cause of Christ as effectively as Jezebel used them for the cause of Baal?

4. Jezebel followed in her father's footsteps in wors.h.i.+ping a false G.o.d. Are there children in your circle of influence whose parents have a highly negative spiritual influence on them? What is your responsibility in such cases?

5. Was Jezebel truly "beyond repentance"? Why or why not? At what point would a woman sin so grievously that she would be beyond forgiveness? Can you find biblical support for your answers?

6. Scripture says Ahab "sold himself to do evil." How did Jezebel "buy him" away from his G.o.d? Why did Ahab allow Jezebel to rule over him? Did he contribute to his wife's wicked ways? If so, how? What could he have done to prevent his kings.h.i.+p from turning into the most evil one recorded in Scripture?

7. Think of a woman you know-publicly or personally-who is opposed to your faith, who has her heart set on tearing down Christianity. Would you be willing to pray for her heart to be changed? What would it take to change her att.i.tude? What would it take to change your feelings toward her?

8. What's the most important lesson you've learned from the utterly unlovely story of Ahab and Jezebel?

9.

OUT OF.

STEP.

Will you, won't you, will you, won't you,

will you join the dance?

LEWIS CARROLL.

One look at her father's beet-colored face told Michele all she needed to know. She gritted her teeth and prepared for the tirade.

"Young lady, you are not going out on a date with that...that..." The reverend's voice shook with intensity.

"That friend of the family? That talented musician?" Michele kept her voice steady and her tears at bay, smoothing her hands across her jeans to calm herself. "You always said Dave was the most gifted wors.h.i.+p leader you'd ever met, Daddy. You haven't changed your mind, have you?"

Dumb question. Her father had changed his mind about Dave, their youthful minister of music, for one reason: Dave was good. Too good.

After years of being known as the biggest congregation in Oklahoma City, then suffering a steady decline in members.h.i.+p, Rockstone Community Church had suddenly started increasing in numbers...and in spirit. Something bordering on enthusiasm had tiptoed into the wors.h.i.+p services.

The reason was obvious: Dave. They called him "The Music Man." Week after week the time allotted for wors.h.i.+p grew from two hymns and a special number to four hymns, then six. Some weren't even in the hymnal. Because Michele's father was adamant-church was to last one hour and not a minute longer-that time was borrowed from his sermon.

The congregation was thrilled. The reverend was not.

Michele loved her father, despite his stubborn pride, his ties to tradition, and his refusal even to consider updating their wors.h.i.+p services. "You don't have to come all the way into the twenty-first century, Daddy," she'd teased him gently one morning. "Even the 1970s would be good."

He wouldn't hear of it. Wors.h.i.+p to him meant singing all eight verses of a hymn written by a long-dead composer, followed by the offering, an organ interlude, his forty-minute sermon, and a prayer of dismissal.

Eleven to noon, then off to Sunday brunch. See you next week.

Dave, however, put a wrinkle in her father's smooth style.

After an especially moving choral number one Sunday, the church accidentally broke into applause. When Mrs. Magruder shouted out a hearty "Amen!" in the middle of one of Dave's impa.s.sioned solos, Michele knew the music minister's days were numbered.

She eyed the door, anxious to escape her father's angry countenance. "Daddy, I gotta go. Dave is expecting me to meet him for a movie. I'll...see you later." A tinge of guilt pierced her heart as she grabbed her jacket and slipped out the front door. She couldn't bear watching her father's bitterness and jealousy harden his heart to granite.

When she got home that night, another stern lecture awaited her. She was not to see Dave. Period.

She had to see Dave. Often.

The tug of war took its toll on her heart.

Michele stopped talking about Dave, stopped trying to convince her father to change, stopped pretending she wasn't falling in love with her Music Man.

It all came to a head one stormy Sunday afternoon.

The wide Oklahoma sky was packed with steel-colored clouds heavy with rain as she and Dave scurried across the parking lot of the Sooner or Later Grill, far across town from Rockstone's after-church crowd. Thunder rumbled ominously overhead. The storm was a heartbeat away.

Seconds later, squeezed into the same side of the booth, their backs to the entrance, they didn't hear the door crash open like a clap of thunder, didn't see the reverend come barreling through with his trench coat flapping, didn't know he was pointed like an Apache arrow straight at them.

By the time Michele spotted him, it was too late.

"Isn't this a pretty picture?" Her father was visibly trembling, his rage was so acute. "After I forbade you to see him, Michele, you deliberately disobeyed me-"

"Daddy, I...I..." She felt as though a pipe organ had landed on her chest.

Dave leaped to her rescue. "Reverend, this-"

"Enough!" The older man banged his fist on the table for emphasis, sending their water gla.s.ses dancing. "My daughter may be eighteen, but she still lives under my roof. Your relations.h.i.+p-or whatever you call it-is over, effective immediately." He pointed toward the door with a shaking finger. "Michele, my car is in the parking lot. I expect you in the front seat within thirty seconds."

She caught a glimpse of Dave's anguished expression as her father dragged her out of the booth and shoved her toward the door. "No, Daddy!" Her sobbing pleas were ignored. Stumbling toward the door, her cheeks on fire, she rehea.r.s.ed the things she would say in apology when Dave called later.

He will call, won't he? Surely he would.

Dave braced himself against the corner of the booth, a dozen emotions vying for his attention. It took every ounce of self-control that G.o.d could provide to keep from punching the man's lights out.

It seemed the sentiment was mutual.

The reverend's voice dropped to a menacing pitch. "And you, Dave. You can sing your tune for some other man's daughter. Mine is spoken for."

Dave gulped and prayed for strength. "That's right, sir. Michele is mine."

The older man's laugh was a derisive snicker, devoid of humor. "I beg to differ. Phil Trimble has asked me for her hand in marriage. She's going to be thrilled when I tell her the answer is yes."

"Phil who?" Dave was stunned to silence. Michele had mentioned a friend named Phil in her adult Bible cla.s.s but not with any hint of feelings for the guy, romantic or otherwise. He slid to the edge of the booth. "Sir, I'd like to talk with Michele about this, if you don't mind."

"I do mind." The reverend planted his hands on the table, his face the exact color of his blood-red tie. "If you call our house, I'll have the number changed. If you darken the door of our home again, I'll have you arrested. If you even think about interfering with my daughter's marriage plans, I'll make very certain you're never on the staff of any church in this state." The man leaned forward, lowering his voice to a growl. "Don't think I can't do it, Son. I carry a big stick in our state a.s.sociation. I'll run your sorry self out of town faster than you can play two notes on that baby grand at Rockstone."

Dave knew all about the man's formidable sway. Truth be told, it was why he'd shown an interest in Michele in the first place, until his guilty conscience had forced him to back away just in time for Michele to throw herself at him. He'd caught her with open arms.

Michele. His heart tightened in a knot. How could she even consider a proposal from another man and never have given him the slightest hint he wasn't the only one? Obviously her true colors had remained under wraps. Until now.

Dave slid against the back of the booth, defeated. On top of everything else, the thought of the most powerful senior pastor in Oklahoma City making his life miserable was more than he could bear. "Have no fear, sir." His voice was low but steady. "I won't be calling Michele again. You can count on it."

Michele tossed her car keys and choral folder on the kitchen counter. "Phil, I'm home!" No answer. There's a nice surprise. In a dozen years of marriage, he'd seldom given her much breathing s.p.a.ce. An empty house would be a blessing for a change.

She dropped onto the couch in an exhausted heap, her head pounding from a grueling Wednesday night at church. They were doing an eighteenth-century cantata for Easter-her father's favorite and a Rockstone tradition. Except for the year Dave had led Easter wors.h.i.+p with the choir stretched around the sanctuary, waving palm branches and singing some upbeat version of "Hosanna in the Highest" with a full-throttle bra.s.s section.

Michele shuddered at the memory, then chuckled as she grabbed the remote control for the television. Why she'd fallen for his boyish charm so long ago was anybody's guess. Must've been the curly hair and soft brown eyes. Or your soft brain, silly!

When her father explained why he'd been forced to make such a scene at the Sooner or Later Grill that afternoon long ago, it had all made sense. He described in painful detail how Dave had tried to use her to earn brownie points with him and the other denominational leaders. How Dave had undermined her own father's ministry, with plans for more of the same in the years to come. How Dave had no intentions of ever marrying Michele. In fact, he'd been seen with a certain girl named Abby several Sunday nights running.

The saddest truth of all: Dave never called her again. Never. He'd tendered his resignation, claiming "doctrinal differences," and left town to start his own ministry.

It all added up to good riddance, she'd decided. When her father introduced her to Phil Trimble, it seemed like a match made in...well, if not heaven, at least Oklahoma City. He was safe, he was attentive, and he never tried to rock the boat at her father's church. Just the opposite-he was an active deacon and faithful t.i.ther. Though their marriage had little pa.s.sion, it also had little pain.

Her husband wors.h.i.+ped her almost to the point of embarra.s.sment. But after Dave's dishonesty, then desertion, Phil was blessedly dependable.

Michele slipped off her too-tight shoes and surfed through the channels, barely pausing at each program, until a familiar face suddenly flashed across her screen. Speak of the devil! There was Dave-dressed in black, banging on an electronic keyboard for all it was worth while a gaggle of shapely females with headset microphones crooned in the background, flas.h.i.+ng hundred-watt smiles at the camera.

So Dave is on tour again. His ministry had exploded to the national level a few years back. Sold-out concerts, chart-topping CDs, custom T-s.h.i.+rts, the works. She found it all a little excessive. Distasteful, even. Good thing she hadn't ended up with him.

Liar.

Michele groaned and flopped over on a pile of pillows. No use pretending she didn't think about him, dream about him, wonder how he was doing. Despite her predictable life with Phil, hardly a day went by that didn't include some small memory of Dave.

She turned the volume up a little, then soon found herself leaning forward to get a better look at him. The years had been exceedingly kind to the man. His hair was still a curly mane; his eyes glowed with intensity. She felt something inside her begin to uncurl-a knot of bitterness being released-and a spark of interest take its place.

Oh, Dave...

The shrill ring of the phone launched Michele to her feet with a breathless start. She answered it, certain it was Phil telling her he'd be home at precisely 9:25.

"Hi, Michele," a male voice purred. "It's your old Music Man."

Her knees started to buckle under her. "Dave? But...! I was just watching you!"

"On TV, huh? We taped that service last week in Dallas." The warmth in his voice stirred her heart like a silver spoon swirling honey into hot tea. "I'm in town, Michele. Hope it's okay...I...just wanted to give you a call."

"Dave, I can't believe...after so many years." She sat down with an ungraceful thump, looking at the handsome man on screen and realizing the same man was on the other end of her phone line. "You look...great!" Stupid, stupid!

"Uh...thanks." He cleared his throat, obviously embarra.s.sed by her outburst. "The reason I called is, I'm leading a citywide wors.h.i.+p service at the Myriad Convention Center downtown tomorrow night. I thought...well, I thought you might like a ticket."

Her heart was beating so loudly she was sure he could hear it. Go to the Myriad for church? Alone? Downtown? The idea was absurd. And absolutely wonderful. She found herself agreeing to go, taking down directions, hanging on every word as he caught her up on the last dozen years of his ministry.

She bided her time, working up her confidence, until she finally asked him. "Dave, I gotta know. Why now? Why...me?"

Silence sang across the phone line.

"Michele, don't you know? You were always my first girl. Nothing can change that." His sincerity was obvious. His voice, his charisma, and the good-looking man staring back at her from the television screen managed to turn Michele into a stammering teenager all over again.

"Tomorrow night, then." She was so happy she could cry. When she hung up a few minutes later, she did cry. That's how Phil found her when he came rus.h.i.+ng in the door at 9:25.

"Honey, I tried to call you, but the line was busy." He slipped off his coat, then joined her on the couch. "Michele? Are you okay?"

She shook her head and sniffed. How in the world was she going to explain herself? She decided not to try. "Phil, it's like this. I'm going to a...concert tomorrow night downtown. A...a friend got a ticket for me. I'm meeting...my friend there."

His eyes, always so open, narrowed slightly. "The only concert I know about is Dave what's-his-name, that guy you used to date. Is that the one?"

There was no getting around it, so she nodded with a slight shrug, hoping he'd let it drop.

He didn't. "Who are you meeting there, Michele?"

Before she could stop herself, before she could think and reason and sort out her feelings, they came spilling out in a great gush. How she'd never stopped thinking about Dave. How she'd missed his music, his creativity, his zeal for G.o.d. And his gently insistent kisses-yes, she even told Phil that.

You're a fool, Michele! But she couldn't seem to stop herself. Phil didn't speak, didn't move, only grew paler by the minute until she finished.

"Go, then." His sigh was filled with anguish. "I can't promise I'll be here when you get back."