Charlie Cannon, Part 2

“Charlie? Is that you?” The guy was the right size, dressed in red-checked flannel shirt, work pants, boots. Mace hadn’t seen the guy since they’d competed in the Carolina Crappie Classic a few years ago, when Charlie’d taken first place in the tournament and he’d ended in fourth.

The gray eyes searched his again, and this time the bearded face wrinkled in a grin. “Yeah, man, it’s me. I thought that was you. How you doin’, Mace?”

Mace pulled him in for a hug. “I’m doing great, bro. I can’t believe it’s you.”

“It’s me, all right.” He scratched his beard. “You still doing any tourneys? Last time I heard, you’d moved to Texas or something.”

Mace gave him the short version of his and Lindy’s move to seminary, the recent move back to the Hope Springs area, the new ministry at Beal Street Church. “No, I haven’t popped a rod in the water in ages. That happens when you get a new place, new job. Hey, you live here in town?”

“Naw, but I come in ‘most every day for business.  Got my cabinet workshop and cabin out on Lake Watkins, with a pier, and about twenty acres to myself. Got everything a man could possibly want.” He paused. “You ought to come out sometime, Mace, get caught up on your fishing. I’ll even take you out on my brand new Nitro Z-9. She’s a beauty, she is.”  The flannel shirt puffed with pride, and Mace heard it in his voice. Usually a low-key guy who kept pretty much to himself, that was the longest string of words he’d ever heard Charlie utter at once.

“Tell you what,” Mace said, reaching for his wallet and pulling out a business card. “Here’s my number so we can keep in touch.”

Charlie squinted and read it aloud, putting deliberate emphasis on each word. “Beal Street Church, Reverend Mason Mitchell.”  Charlie reached for his back pocket and slipped Mace a card too. “That’s funny. Never, ever figured you for a preacher, Mace. Huh, Preacher Mace.  Kinda has a nice ring to it, though.”

Mace felt heat rush to his face. Lord, he’s right about the not knowing part. I never really lived out my relationship with You in front of him. And until I prove differently in his book, I’m still same old Mace.

He held up a hand. “To be honest, I’m not the preacher. Officially, I’m the pastor in charge of praise and worship,” he paused, “and anything else that needs doing. Say, why don’t you come to Beal Street Church tomorrow? We’d love to have you.”

The gray eyes grew wary and went to the floor. “Can’t do that, Mace. Gonna be out on the lake tomorrow. Got a tourney in a week, and I need to get me in some practice time.”

Charlie always had been a stickler for that sort of thing.  It was part of the reason why he took so many tournaments. That, and the man was just a natural. You had to admire the guy for making it look so easy.

Mace stuck out a hand. “Well, anytime you can make it. .  .I’ll be glad to see you there. And I’d love to take you up on your offer to fish together sometime.”

Charlie shook firmly. “Call me and we’ll see what we can do about the fishing part. It was great to see you, man.”

Charlie took his paint can, started to walk away. He stopped after a couple of steps and came back, scratching his beard. “No, let’s go ahead and get this thing nailed down. How’s about next week for you—what’s your day off at the church?”

“Thursday. Our senior pastor takes Friday, so I take Thursdays. Off on Saturdays, too.”

“Thursday, it is. I’ll see you then,” he said, grinning. “Have a good one, Mace.”

“Hey, you too. See you later.”

As Charlie Cannon walked away, Mace couldn’t help but ruminate through the outward-appearing randomness of it all—literally bumping into Charlie Cannon, here in Sloan’s Hardware, in a moment’s time when he, or Charlie, could have been anywhere else on the planet.

But he knew he’d have to give credit, where credit was really due. God, You totally orchestrated this, he thought, laughing in his heart, pushing onto the next item on his list. I don’t know why You chose to hook Charlie and me up again, but I’d say it was definitely one of Your God-things. Thanks for letting me be around to see You do it.

Charlie Cannon, Part 1

“And He said to them, ‘Follow Me, and I will make you fishers of men.’ And they immediately left the nets, and followed Him.”  Matthew 4:19-20


Lindy Mitchell leaned out the Jeep window for a kiss. “I’ll be back in an hour. Don’t get lost, or we might have to send a search party in after you.”

Mace Mitchell grinned. How well my wife knows me, he thought.

“Don’t worry–I have a list.” He pulled his wrinkled, yellow piece of paper from his jeans and waved it. “Just call me when you’re leaving the grocery, Lins, and I’ll be ready. Love you, Choo-Choo.”

“Ditto, Kiddo.”

He watched her blond head blip around the corner out of the parking lot, then he grabbed a buggy.

Smoothing out the paper, he raked a hand through his curly hair. Picture hangers. Doormat. Interior paint, #2891 Ocean Breezes. Okay, he’d head on over to Paint first.

On his way there, he envisioned the pastel blue-green color Lindy picked for their bedroom.  Once they decided to paint, it’d taken Lindy several tries to find the right color.  No black, no purple, was all he asked. So last night when she held up her tiny paint chip against their stark white walls, he heartily agreed.

Yeah, he’d try his best to get in and out of here today, and not aimlessly float down the aisles to play with the newest and coolest the store had in their displays. It was his plan to get the bedroom taped and completely knocked out by noon, then buzz on over to the church to tweak the sound and graphics for tomorrow’s worship service.

At Paint, the young guy behind the counter was mixing another order. He wiped his hands on a paint-splattered apron and approached. “Kyle” said his nametag. “May I help you, sir?”

Mace pointed to the list. “I certainly hope so, Kyle. I need two gallons of this in your best interior flat.”

Kyle nodded. “Be right back.”

Kyle went about gathering cans of base paint, cracking the lids, and sticking them under the color machine. Mace watched as several codes were punched on the keypad and long and short dribbles of color slid into his paint. Opposite them, the paint agitator stopped its monumental shaking. Kyle strode to the monster of a machine, removed another customer’s can from its bowels, scooped out a paint daub on his finger. Mace chuckled as Kyle had to rummage under the counters for a decidedly low-tech hand-held hair dryer to dry the paint color he’d swiped on the lid.

Mace went back to his list. While the paint’s getting mixed, I should head on over to hardware for those wall hangers to put up those pictures Lindy’s been dogging me about. Then over to flooring to get a replacement doormat, thanks to Ranger, who’d gotten bored last week and decided to chew up the old one.

Mace started forward, almost bumping his cart into a guy who’d since appeared at the paint counter. Surprise shot into the other man’s full-bearded face. “Hey, sorry about that,” apologized Mace. “Hope I didn’t get you.”

“Naw, not a problem.” The man met Mace’s eyes. A flicker of recognition lit the gray eyes, then receded.

I know him too, thought Mace, but where do I know him from?

Kyle walked up with the finished can of paint, set it on the counter. “Here you go, Mr. Cannon. Will there be anything else for you today?”

Cannon. Charlie Cannon? Could it be—?