Inside, a couple dozen men had their heads down folding up tables and unstacking towers of chairs into rows. Clarke spotted a large stainless steel pot, its lid ajar, the slit puffing steam. He made straight for it, his mouth hung open expectantly as he grabbed the lid.
"They wanted to clear that away," a hand fell on his shoulder and squeezed. "But He told me you'd come."
The voice had that benevolence only a servant of God could muster. Clarke turned around; the Deacon's greying hair and lined face betrayed a searing vitality.
"I'd like something to eat please... sir." Clarke heard himself, the last and only person he addressed that way being his father.
The Deacon released his grip and proceeded to ladle hot soup into a bowl. "The Lord needs us strong." he proclaimed, passing it to Clarke along with a spoon.
The warm liquid snaked down his throat and coiled within his belly. It felt good. Better than expected. Clarke went for another spoonful. Maybe he was that hungry after all.
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