In the small rural town of Homestead Springs, people live slower paced lives that are centered around their farms, Main Street, and the old familiar stores that they know and where they have always shopped.  There is an early 1900s era white clapboard church on Main Street with a simple black wrought iron fence that has no gate. A slightly uneven and cracked well-worn concrete sidewalk with depressions from the years of footsteps lead to two wide red brick steps and weathered but serviceable double doors.  Railroad tracks lie less than 50 yards behind the church property.  The congregation of the Church of Paradise Found has long since grown deaf to the rumble of freight trains during their all day Sunday and Wednesday evening services. 

     Trains never stop in Homestead Springs anymore.  The old train station is now only an empty run down building whose windows are cleaned on the outside by Miss Molly Wendell, President of the Ladies Social Sodality.  She hated the look of dirty windows and came once a week to give the exterior a sweep and a slight polish.  Several men from the Lion's Club renewed the red and gray paint once a year on the exterior. The station name board is still in place, proclaiming to the passing trains, 'Homestead Springs.'�  In all, one can say that Homestead Springs is still a vibrant place, at least to its 700 inhabitants.

     The pastor of the congregation, the Reverend Winston Kerby, a man of thunderous sermons evoking brimstone and fire that could move even the hardest heart, received his annual invitation to the denominational conclave.  Knowing how these conventions took longer than planned, last year he was gone for almost three weeks, he needed a temporary replacement.  Three weeks on church business might not seem a long time to folks not weighed down with saving souls, however it was more time than the Reverend thought his congregation could be away from the Good Word.   

     Therefore, he pondered on the weighty decision of which member of his congregation of the Church of Paradise Found to entrust with Sunday services.  Miss Maud Hewert certainly had studied the Good Book and could quote verses without a stutter or pause, however Maud had a tendency to go off course and ramble endlessly until her listeners' eyes glazed over and they fell asleep even while standing up.

     Royce Carter was another possibility but Royce had a hearing problem.  In fact, Royce couldn't hear the freight trains that swayed and rumbled along behind the Church of Paradise Found.  He would never hear Miss Leza Pritchard, church pianist, giving her melodic musical cues for the hymns to begin or even when the hymns ended and the weekly sermon should begin.  Miss Leza was a virtuoso of the keyboard and Royce was deaf as a post.

     Finally Reverend Kerby came to and settled on Dooley Clark.  Dooley was of well known for speaking in tongues after a late Saturday night bout with emptying a gallon or so of his prime and potent 'elixir' brewed in his backyard, close to the old abandoned privy.  Dooley had memorized every verse of both the Old and New Scriptures of the Good Book, since his reading ability wasn't any too good. Nevertheless, it was still more than fair, considering he only finished the third grade at Homestead Springs Consolidated School over sixty years ago.  He also frequently and freely gave advice to the citizens of Homestead Springs, whether it was requested or not.

     Dooley supported himself in a meager fashion by concocting his own unique business.  Each day he mounted his old donkey, Twisty, and rode down to his self-appointed post in the wide dirt alley between Frickerts General Store & Farm Implements and the First Homestead Springs State Bank to wait for any accidental or occasional tourists who had missed their exit on the new interstate highway and came up Main Street looking for directions back.

     He cultivated a long white scraggly beard and for this important work, he wore a weather-beaten and stained felt prospector's hat.  He had mining implements that he found in the town trash dump and rusty flat copper pans hanging from Twisty's worn saddle.  Twisty's outfit included a faded orange and yellow striped blanket underneath his saddle.  Each day Dooley wore the same washed out red and blue plaid shirt and worn threadbare jeans to complete his 'authentic' outfit.  Ever the undiscovered visionary, Dooley became the Wild West image come to life, in the stereotype come to life.

     Dooley had never engaged in any type of mining but he had looked up all the words he needed.  With impressive diligence, he became the embodiment of a down-on-his-luck miner who would consent to pose for an authentic photo, when the tourist's two dollars crossed his palm.  After a while he even believed his own story.

     As the Reverend warmed to the idea, he rose from his nicked and paper-cluttered desk, which had been salvaged from the river banks after torrential rain storms moved it downstream, at the Lord's will, to Homestead Springs.  He walked briskly down Main Street to Dooley's place of business in the alley.

     'Dooley,'� the Reverend called out and broke Dooley's train of thought and intense concentration on Bo Weaver's cat daintily nibbling on the carcass of either a half eaten rat or a skinless raccoon.

     With a certain look of disappointment at having to stop this interesting interlude, Dooley looked at the Reverend approaching.  Twisty just leaned more into the general store's lengthening shadow.

     'I'll be gone for three weeks, which means three Sundays,'� the Reverend stated in a slightly winded voice.  He patted first his chest then his ample belly protruding over his belt.

     'So I've heard,'� Dooley ventured.

     'Well, our congregation has a problem.  Three weeks without services is a mite too long for our people.  Our flock may move into being backsliders and slackers without hearing the Good Word.  We must be vigilant.'�

     There was a noisy buzzing from an informal ring of flies hovering over the unknown carcass.  Dooley's eyes shifted from the carcass to the Reverend several times, wanting to resume his occupation but not wishing to be rude to a Man of the Cloth.  One couldn't be too careful with important people.  He allowed himself to nod in answer, that is, if an answer was required.  He still wasn't sure of that, so he cleared his throat too.

     'Well, Dooley, I need someone to stand in for me for those three Sundays and I've decided you're the man.'�

     Dooley's face went from shock to amazement to outright fear and consternation.

     'Reverend, I can't do that,'� he mumbled.  'I'm not a man of the cloth.'�  He hesitated to bring up his past and his many transgressions.

     'Not to worry, Dooley.  I've written down everything for each Sunday, except for the sermon.  Miss Leza has the list of hymns for each Sunday.  You'll be helping me do the Lord's Work.  In fact, the Lord spoke your name in my ear.  So, it's settled.'�

     The Reverend used that as his convincer.  How could Dooley refuse?  And Dooley couldn't. But he certainly wished the Lord would stop whispering in Reverend Kerby's ear.

     On the first Sunday, Dooley sat uncomfortably in Reverend Kerby's burgundy velvet upholstered chair with the worn places on the seat from Reverend Kerby's ample posterior, while Miss Leza played the upright piano with her usual fervor.  The upright was only a little out of tune but the assembled congregation didn't notice and sang with gusto.  They were only moderately off-key.  At last the singing stopped and Dooley stepped up to the lectern for his first sermon.  He cleared his throat and everyone, including Royce leaned forward.

     'Well, everyone, do you know what I'm going to say today?'�

     As one, the congregation nodded their heads yes and exhaled a loud 'Amen.'�

     Dooley looked at each and every familiar face and said without even a quiver in his voice, 'If you know what I am going to say, then I need not say it.'�  He closed the Book of Scriptures and nodded to Miss Leza to play number 25, the concluding hymn.  At the conclusion, he walked down the aisle and nodded his good-bye.

     The next Sunday, the congregation sang the hymns from the chalkboard and waited for Dooley's sermon. Once again he rose from the chair, walked to the rough-hewn lectern and eyed the assembled worshipers who had just belted out a lusty rendition of Shall We Gather at the River.

     'Well, here I am again this week.  Everyone, do you know what I am going to say?'�

     After talking among themselves, this week the congregation shook their heads 'no'� in unison.

     'OK, friends, if you don't know what I'm going to say, then I am wasting my time.'�  Once again, he firmly closed the Book of Scriptures, nodded to Miss Leza to play number 50, the last hymn on the worn and slick chalkboard.  Stunned, everyone sang the concluding hymn.  Dooley once again walked down the aisle and bid the congregation good-bye.

     Homestead Spring's citizens were abuzz with the happenings for the past two Sundays.  They were determined they would not be cheated out of their Sunday sermon this week, so when the church bell clanged on the third Sunday and they were sitting on the old wooden pews, they sang and waited.  There was a collective sigh as Dooley once again took his place at the lectern.

     'Well, you all sang real well this morning.  Everyone deserves a pat on the back.  Everyone, do you know what I'm going to say today?'�

      Some of the congregation nodded their heads 'yes' and others shook their head 'no'. Dooley took a deep breath and proclaimed 'Will those who know tell those who don't know?'�

     Then Dooley motioned to Miss Leza for the last hymn Bringing in the Sheaves, which everyone always sang as Bringing in the Sheep because it sounded more reasonable that way.

     Dooley left with the strains of the last hymn still reverberating, having fulfilled his obligation to Reverend Kerby and the Lord, who constantly kept whispering into the Reverend's ear.