“He was a big man, well over six feet, with white hair and a barrel chest, who would have looked equally at home as the foreman of a construction crew or in the cab of a logging rig. But he'd heard the call forty years earlier while harvesting corn on his father's farm in Nebraska. After serving in churches throughout the upper Midwest for the first ten years after his ordination, Pastor Poole had started his western migration, first to North Dakota, then Idaho, and finally Washington. He'd arri...ved in Spokane fifteen years ago. It was his first big-city calling, and his wife had hated it. According to Mrs. Poole, after much prayer—and probably even more bitching—they'd ended up in Alpine. On this snowy morning in December, Pastor Poole's baritone rolled out over the small gathering that had come to pay its respects to Crystal Bird. There were perhaps forty people in attendance at First Baptist, including the Wailers, a group of women who attended all local funerals, and let out a chorus of high-pitched moans and groans at intervals, both appropriate and inappropriate.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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