Riverton Town Chronicles

By David C. Heaston

Riverton Town Chronicles begins with the news that Patrick Thompson, an ambitious but inexperienced young minister, has just been elected as the new pastor of Riverton Community Church, a small country church located in a rural town in the mountains of northern Georgia. The story follows the zany adventures (misadventures would be a more accurate description) Patrick, his devoted wife, Julia, and their four children encounter during the first six months of this heavenly assignment. To say the family’s journey into uncharted waters was not exactly smooth sailing would be like saying Noah’s flood was a passing shower.

The story is told through the observant eyes of John Samuel, the Thompson’s nine-year old son. Young John Samuel views the events around him with an amusing blend of boyish innocence and clever insight. For example, he reflects upon his devout parents’ embarrassing tradition of naming their offspring and even the family pets with Biblical names. He laments, “I shudder to think what would happen if our family grew any larger. I would likely have siblings branded throughout their lives with the likes of Titus Zechariah or Jezebel Magdalene. Suffice it to say the salutation on our Christmas cards could easily be mistaken for the Table of Contents of the Holy Bible.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Jul 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9781664299023

David C. Heaston

David Heaston, a third-generation minister has served in full-time ministry, both as an associate pastor and Christian school administrator. His experiences growing up in the Bible Belt provided his inspiration for writing Riverton Town Chronicles. He is a devoted husband, father of six, and proud papa of seven. David lives in upstate South Carolina.

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Copyright © 2023 David C. Heaston.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

WestBow Press

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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ISBN: 978-1-6642-9901-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6642-9902-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023908305

WestBow Press rev. date: 6/23/2023

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

Acknowledgments

I would like to extend my heartfelt gratitude to:

• Jodi Varnado Bullock for taking on the task of providing the initial edits of my manuscript and providing countless, helpful suggestions.

• The great team at Westbow Press for their invaluable assistance and guidance throughout the entire publishing process.

• Joanna, my lovely and gracious wife for her unwavering support and encouragement through the journey we call life.

• Jessica, Davie, Christina, Jonathan, Olivia, and Alysha for allowing me to be your dad.

• And finally, to my parents, Louis and Jean Heaston. They taught me the value of maintaining a good sense of humor, even in the most challenging times. Although having a sense of humor is not listed among the spiritual gifts (personally, I think it should be) and is not often considered to be among the most extraordinary talents, making someone laugh or even smile isn’t bad.

A merry heart does good, like medicine.

Proverbs 17:22 (NKJV)

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Judging from the smile on his face, you would have thought Dad had just won the grand prize in the Publishers Clearing House sweepstakes. But what he had just won, I was later told, was a reward from a much higher category. In hindsight, any sane person would have to wonder if the word curse would have been a more appropriate description.

Yes, sir, Mr. Johnson, I can promise you that you won’t be disappointed. Thanks again. Have a good day, Dad responded cheerfully. As he concluded the phone conversation, Dad’s face was beaming so brightly he reminded me of an adult-size version of one of those Glo Worm toys that my little sister liked to play with. Mom, standing directly in front of my dad during the entire phone conversation, was nervously ringing a dishtowel around her hands so tightly that her knuckles had turned ghostly white. It amazed me that a mature, intelligent, sensible woman like Mom could exhibit such a childlike air of anticipation. Her anxious wait was soon to be rewarded.

As he put down the phone, my normally distinguished father performed an acrobatic maneuver that caused me to be filled with both awe and concern. Though impressed by this dazzling display of agility, I was scared stiff that he was going to pull his back out of joint and wind up in traction. Leaping vertically from his chair as if aided by an invisible ejection device, Dad landed on one foot, grabbed Mom around the waist, and in one swift motion, swirled her around from his right side to his left in a perfectly symmetrical motion. It was a maneuver of which any ballet dancer would have been proud. Mom’s reaction, featuring a blushing-red complexion and prolonged, hysterical giggling, was in a class by itself. The conclusion to this performance was every bit as clumsy as the rest of the exhibition had been a thing of breathtaking (literally, in Mom’s case) beauty. As Mom landed, her momentum plunged her harshly into the chair that moments before had been occupied by Dad during his fateful phone call. Dad bent over and planted a big smooch firmly on Mom’s right cheek. I mused as I observed this strange scene that, if this is what marriage and having children does to you, I was going to join a monastery.

Finally, Dad revealed what all the excitement was about. Pulling Mom up to her feet and holding her securely around the waist, he exclaimed with obvious pride, Honey, you’re looking at the newly elected pastor of the Riverton Community Church!

Oh, darling, I’m so proud of you! responded Mom, returning the embrace with a rather vigorous hug of her own.

By now, the rest of the family had arrived from their rooms to see what all the commotion was about. Though I had witnessed the entire scene, I couldn’t help but wonder the same thing. First of all, the news was not exactly shocking. Dad’s name was the only one on the ballot from which the church board had voted. He had been the associate pastor at the church for over six years. Over that time, he had gradually assumed more responsibility, especially during the lengthy illness of founding pastor Rev. James Wickson. About two months had passed since Rev. Wickson’s death.

Secondly, from what I could see, which granted, may not have been much through my eight-year, ten-month, and fourteen-day-old eyes, the Riverton Community Church pastorate was not exactly a prize catch for any seasoned minister. The run-down country church had not held a hundred people for any one service in over two years, not counting special occasions like weddings, Christmas programs, and funerals, the most recent, of course, being the memorial service for Rev. Wickson. Now there was a crowd!

Throughout his twenty years of ministry in the small farming community, Rev. Wickson had always been an outstanding citizen. Though most folks in town didn’t care much for his spirited fire-and-brimstone preaching for which he was notorious, the kind-hearted preacher was generally well loved and respected. So, when it came time to pay their last respects, just about everyone in Riverton came, though most had not bothered to grace the church with their presence while Rev. Wickson was alive. His death and a detailed account of the funeral made the front page of the Riverton Times Weekly, a significant feat indeed, considering the paper’s owner, publisher, and editor in chief, Mr. Leroy J. Huggins, was the head deacon of the stately, more dignified Riverton First Baptist Church (the word first being quite unnecessary in Riverton). The paper reported in its February 9 edition:

Only two events in recent memory have attracted larger crowds than that of the Rev. James Wickson’s funeral, conducted Friday at the Riverton Community Church. One of those was the Riverton Bicentennial Parade in 1959. The other occurred three years prior when our fair town hosted the state finals of the Georgia Y.C. C.A. (Yodeling and Clogging Clubs of America).

What’s going on? asked Matthew, having heard the commotion from his room.

My little sister, Mary Esther, followed Matthew into the den with Andrew being the last to enter. I continued to sit on the floor in the middle of the den where I had been working on a model car.

Children, we have some wonderful news!

As Mom began with the big announcement, I noticed that her countenance had taken on the same glowing radiance as Dad’s face. I could only hope that whatever was causing this abnormal condition was not contagious. I shivered at the thought of a possible Riverton Times headline: Glo Worm Family Shines at New Pastor’s Side.

It’s official, Mom proudly continued. Your dad is the new pastor!

Mary Esther was the first to offer personal congratulations. Being all of three years old, she had no idea what a pastor was, but taking her cue from her ecstatic parents, she figured it had to be good. She raced toward Dad and, wrapping her tiny arms around Dad’s knees as hard as she could, exclaimed, Yeah, Daddy. Good for you!

Matthew followed in the impromptu reception line. Imitating a greeting technique he had often observed among adult males, he reached out to shake Dad’s hand. While vigorously shaking hands, he braced Dad’s right wrist with his left hand. I suppose the left hand was needed to lend extra support.

Congratulations, Dad. They couldn’t have picked a better man.

I suppose Matthew had earned the right to greet our father in such a grown-up manner. He was, after all, the oldest of the four children, having become officially a teenager only nine days earlier. But Matthew always interacted with Dad in this fashion. He fancied himself as Dad’s peer since he had voiced aspirations of becoming a minister since his early childhood.

Now only Andrew and I remained. Though I reasoned that Andrew should have logically been next in the family reception line (he was, after all, almost two full years older than me), I knew better than to wait on him when it came to expressing any outward display of affection. For this, I could not blame him. In all honesty, I preferred to skip the congratulatory ceremony myself since I found such moments awkward. But I knew Mom would not allow anyone out of the room until both Andrew and me had offered at least some form of congratulations. So, after a brief moment of hesitation, I stood, walked over to Dad, and put my arms around his waist. I stood there for a minute and then, without saying a word, walked away. I wanted to say something to show my support, but nothing came to mind. If nothing else, my clumsy action served to strike a suitable balance between Mary’s innocent, childish gesture and Matthew’s false air of professionalism.

As he watched, Andrew had not moved from his position in the open doorway leading to the hallway. Remaining as unmoved emotionally as he was physically, he finally muttered a nonchalant, Great, Dad.

With those empty words, Andrew retreated to his room, undoubtedly to continue what he was doing before he had been interrupted by all the commotion—attempting to best his personal record score on Space Invaders on his new Atari video system he got for his birthday.

If Andrew’s shallow behavior even remotely bothered Mom or Dad, they certainly did not show it. They were savoring the moment far too much. If there was a higher calling in life for Patrick Edward Thompson, he was completely oblivious to it. He was, after all, the newly elected pastor of the Riverton Community Church.

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My parents first met in August 1961. Dad was about to begin his senior year of what, by all accounts, had been a sparkling academic career at Fairmount Bible College in Johnson, Tennessee. Mom, a Johnson native, was working at Smiley’s Coffee Shop, a popular hangout for Fairmount students. After that, the details get a little fuzzy, depending on whose version one happens to have the privilege of hearing at any given time. Mom and Dad, you see, have different recollections on exactly how their casual, seemingly insignificant first encounter rapidly evolved into a budding romance. In fact, when it comes to the good stuff, like who was first attracted to whom and who pursued whom, their stories are downright contradictory. I fear that if it were not for one Reverend Johnny Ray Collins, any pursuit for historical accuracy in this matter of family history would have ended in total failure.

Uncle Johnny, as we Thompson kids know him, was Dad’s roommate throughout Bible college. The two have remained close ever since. Nowadays, he pastors a church in suburban Atlanta, where he and his family reside. Since Atlanta is only about seventy-five miles from Riverton, the Collins and Thompson families get together several times a year. And anytime they do, fond recollections of the good ole days are sure to surface. Uncle Johnny has always been willing to provide precise details of his former roommate’s courting days, taking special delight in recalling any juicy tidbits that might be a little embarrassing for Dad. Though I have long suspected that these accounts were colored with slight exaggeration, I always listened with keen interest each time the subject came up, knowing that his accounts of my parent’s courtship provided the most impartial information available. During one particularly memorable trip to the Collins’ home that occurred on New Year’s Day, we all sat around the fireplace and listened intently as Uncle Johnny recalled what he jokingly referred to as simply, The Big Romance.

According to Uncle Johnny, Patrick Thompson’s unswerving love for the ministry, his zealous, unyielding dedication to his studies, and his disciplined pursuit for academic excellence was legendary at Fairmount. Young Pat was so involved with class work, volunteering part-time at a local mission, and preaching whenever he had the opportunity, he rarely allowed himself even the smallest personal indulgences or temporal pleasures. He didn’t have a TV in his dorm room, didn’t go to movies, listened to only gospel music, and rarely hung out with the guys. What about girls?

Girls? Uncle Johnny repeated, gleefully responding to my curiosity during the fireside chat. He laughed at the very thought as he continued. Son, for his first three years of college, when it came to the opposite sex, your dad didn’t even know that there was such a thing.

Dad would, according to Uncle Johnny, scoff unmercifully at fellow ministry students who allowed their holy quests to be disrupted by such frivolous activities as relationships with the female gender.

To be sure, F.B.C. (Fairmount Bible College) held a special place in Patrick Thompson’s heart. As a dedicated student, he was always eager to assist the college in any way that he could. So, it was quite natural for him to report to his beloved Fairmount a week early before his senior year was scheduled to begin. He joined his roommate and closest friend, Johnny Collins, and other upper-class volunteers to assist with the weeklong freshmen orientation. It was after a full day of hectic activity that Johnny, Patrick, and two other male students stopped by Smiley’s Coffee Shop for a late-night snack. It was the first real opportunity the friends had to relax and chat since returning from summer break, so obviously there was a lot to talk about.

Though that occasion marked the