My Poor Valentine

by Donna Poole

I’m not making this up.

You may think it’s fiction, but it’s fact.

John and I were visiting a church. To protect the guilty, I won’t tell you the denomination or the location, but I’ll say this; it was a very large church. The message was good, a bit lengthy, but good. Then came the invitation sometimes known as the altar call.

For the uninitiated, let me explain. An altar call isn’t a bad thing; it’s often sweet and holy. During the final hymn the pastor invites people to come to the front. Some may come to indicate their desire to trust Christ as Savior, to be baptized, or just to kneel at the altar and pray.

The pastor in the church we visited began the altar call. We sang a favorite hymn, one I’ve loved since childhood, “Just as I Am” by Charlotte Elliott (1789-1871).

I wasn’t surprised when we sang all the verses because that’s what we’d done with all the previous hymns we’d sung in that church.

The words are beautiful and true:

1 Just as I am, without one plea,
But that Thy blood was shed for me,
And that Thou bidst me come to Thee,
O Lamb of God, I come.

Refrain:
Just as I am, Just as I am,
Just as I am, I come.

2 Just as I am, and waiting not
To rid my soul of one dark blot;
To Thee, whose blood can cleanse each spot,
O Lamb of God, I come. [Refrain]

3 Just as I am, though tossed about,
With many a conflict, many a doubt;
Fightings within and fears without,
O Lamb of God, I come. [Refrain]

4 Just as I am, Thou wilt receive,
Wilt welcome, pardon, cleanse, relieve;
Because Thy promise I believe,
O Lamb of God, I come. [Refrain]

After each verse, and sometimes during each one, the pastor pleaded with people to come to the altar, but no one responded. So, he began singing the hymn again. I looked around; no one seemed surprised by the repetition, not even when it continued to happen. For. Fifteen. Minutes.

I started feeling sorry for the pastor. His pleading began to sound desperate. I felt sorry for the congregation having to stand that long, but they seemed immune. I felt especially sorry for myself. I was tired. I was hungry. We were on vacation.

Like John Wayne said, “Slap some bacon on a biscuit and let’s go! We’re burnin’ daylight!”

I had a sudden epiphany.

“Scuse me,” I whispered to John, also known as Pastor John Poole, when we’re home, not on vacation, and he’s behind the pulpit in our church.

He thought I needed to use the lady’s room. He inched back to give me room to slip out but looked uneasily at the line of relatives still between him and the center aisle. I could see it on his face. It was going to be a tight squeeze for me to exit; John was going to ask me if I could wait.

That’s not what he asked. He studied my face and looked suspicious.

“Wait. Why do you want to get out?” he whispered as the congregation sang verse three for the thirtieth or fortieth time.

“I’m going to the altar.”

“You’re going to do what? Why?”

Our whispering should have been distracting, but everyone had their faces buried in their hymnals. They were probably trying to avoid eye contact with the now tearful face of their pastor.

“Because! That man isn’t going to let us leave until someone repents. I’m sure I can think of something to repent of on my way up there.”

A storm was brewing on my sweet John’s face. He’s a funny guy, full of jokes, fun, and laughter, but there are certain things that are sacred cows, and you do not joke about them. Apparently, the altar call was one of them.

But I wasn’t joking. I had every intention of walking down, down that long aisle in that big church and thinking of something to say to the pastor when I got to the front.

Perhaps I could just say, “I need to talk to the Lord about the sin in my life.”

I mean, everyone has sin in their life, right? By the time I got to the front of the church I’d be guilty of the sin of deception of just going to the altar so I could slap some bacon on my biscuit, get going, and not spend anymore vacation time singing fifty more verses.

“I’m serious, John. Let me out.”

Poor guy. He loves me enough to die for me, I think, but sometimes he just doesn’t know what to do with me.

It was a stare down between the two of us, but we never found out who would win, because someone else went to the altar. The organist hurried off to bandage her blistered fingers, and the pastor closed in prayer. Amazingly, he showed no sign of laryngitis.

As for the repentant sinner who walked down the long, long aisle? I hate it when people judge others’ motives, but I couldn’t help but wonder if he was truly sorry or if he just wanted to go eat fried chicken.

 Well, today is Valentine’s Day, and I write this in honor of my wonderful John who has been my Valentine for a long, long time. He’s loved me for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health. He’s even loved me when I wanted to answer an altar call just so I could get out of church.

Where was the church? I won’t tell you the denomination or the location, but I’ll say this; it was a very large church. And as we left they said, “Ya’ll come back now, ya hear?”