Once Upon a Sunday

by Donna Poole

Even the tiny, white frame building seemed to shiver, and a few more flakes of paint drifted away in the north wind. The panes in the stained-glass windows rattled. It was an unusually cold Sunday for the middle of November in Southern Michigan. Inside the building the handful of people waiting for the service to start huddled around the large, square floor register. Underneath it, the old furnace moaned and groaned, trying to keep out the cold.

“I guess this is everyone who’s coming,” the young pastor called from behind the pulpit. “Might as well find a seat, and we’ll get started.”

Laughing and talking, the people slowly left the warmth of the register and moved to one of the six small pews on each side of the auditorium. There was plenty of room left after everyone had found a seat. The piano player rubbed numb hands together and struck the opening chords of the Doxology. Everyone stood. The young pastor raised a hand to lead the singing, and the congregation sang loudly, “Praise God, from Whom all blessings flow; Praise Him, all creatures here below; Praise Him above, ye heav’ny host; Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.”

Only one person sang the long, drawn-out “Amen.” It was Berta, a middle-aged woman with the mannerisms of a child.

“You may be seated,” the young pastor said. People tried not to smile. The pastor was new and hadn’t yet lost his formality or learned country ways. Everyone knew you sat after the Doxology; they didn’t need to be told. They sat. Except Berta. Noticing the four front pews on each side were empty, she walked up to the first one on the left-hand side and sat.

“I don’t want you to feel lonely up here all by yourself,” she said to the pastor.

“Thank you, Miss Williams,” he said in an even more formal tone.

Berta laughed loudly and slapped her knee. “No one don’t never call me that. I’m Berta. Say it right.”

Now people were grinning. “Alright then. Thank you, Berta.”

The ushers came forward to take the offering. They started at the back and when they got to the front pew Berta stood, as she often did, put in a five, and made change. It took her a long time to count out four ones. This week, there were mostly bigger bills in the plate, and she protested loudly.

“I can’t afford to give no more than a buck, and there’s only three ones in here for me to take out!”

“It’s okay, Berta,” the usher said quietly. “I got you.” He pulled out his own wallet and gave her a dollar. Satisfied, she sat down.

The pastor groaned. He’d grown up in the city and had always attended large, formal churches, even when he’d been in seminary. Why had God called him to this country church?

Don’t expect me to stay here long, Lord. I don’t think these people are capable of learning anything I have to teach. I’m going to resign on the first of the year.

The song service continued enthusiastically. This was the part of the service everyone enjoyed. When it was finished, the piano player closed the lid to the old black piano with a bang and found her seat in one of the back pews.

“Please, ladies, gentlemen, and children,” the pastor said, “turn in your Bibles to the book of Hebrews.”

“We don’t got no children,” Berta said. “Bobby’s the only kid here today, and he’s ‘most twelve years old.”

The pastor sighed. “Thank you, Berta. Now, congregation, you doubtless remember the book of Hebrews was originally written in Greek for a Greek-speaking people. We can understand it better if we know a little Greek ourselves. So, let’s review some words we learned from the book of Hebrews last Sunday.”

He was a high-tech guy himself, but this church had nothing electronic, so he’d had to resort to old school. He wheeled out the large chalk board with the Greek words and their English translations written on it.  

Farmer Brown suddenly noticed how itchy his overalls were. It took Berta about five minutes to start snoring, and she snored like a trucker who’d been driving for ten hours longer than the legal eleven hours allowed.

Sallie loved the Lord and supported the new young preacher and tried to pay attention, but all she could think of was how sore her butt was and why they didn’t have pew cushions like the church in town.

A sudden gust of wind blew the door open, and a mangy mut staggered in, whining and shivering.

“Someone, remove that dog from the premises at once!” the young pastor thundered.

No one moved.

The pastor eyed the dog. He was afraid of dogs, and everyone knew it. It wasn’t a good quality for a country pastor to have, because every farmhouse seemed to have a dog or two. He sighed and remembered his dear, departed mother’s oft repeated advice, “If you want a job done right, do it yourself.”

He stepped down from the pulpit and made his way toward the dog. Great. Not even a collar. How am I supposed to get ahold of this thing? Lord, give me courage.

He reached out a hand, expecting a snarl and a bite, but the dog looked at him with big brown eyes and licked his hand.

“Come on, boy,” the pastor said, patting his knee and heading for the open door, shivering himself as he felt the north wind blowing through it. To his surprise, the dog slowly heaved himself to his feet and staggered after him. This was going to be easier than he’d thought.

“Wait!” Bobby jumped up from his pew. “Preacher, I can see all his ribs! That dog is half starved. You can’t send him back outside. What would Jesus do?”

The young pastor stared down at the dog, and it leaned into his leg panting for breath. He was surprised to see his hand reach down and pet the dog’s head. His voice sounded husky as he asked, “Well, I don’t exactly know what Jesus would do. Do any of you have some ideas?”

“I suppose Jesus might start by shutting that door. It’s freezing in here,” a deacon called out.

Everyone laughed, even the preacher, and he and the dog headed back to the big floor register.

“I think Jesus would feed him,” Bobby said. “And I brought a lunch, because sometimes you talk so long about Greek words that don’t mean anything to me my stomach starts making noises.”

“Is that so?” The young pastor laughed. “Well, I’m only half-way done with my long sermon, so you better get out that lunch and share it with this poor, hungry creature.”

The dog ate more of the lunch than Bobby did, and the pastor watched, grinning. Then he went back to the pulpit, pushed the blackboard out of the way, and told the story about how Jesus fed five-thousand people and maybe a dog or two with a boy’s lunch. Farmer Brown forgot about how itchy his overalls were. Berta stayed awake.

When everyone had left, the pastor turned out the lights. He woke the dog who was still sleeping on the warm register. “Come on dog, let’s go home. I guess I’ll need a dog, since I’m going to be here awhile longer than I thought. These people have a lot to teach me. I just hope and pray I’m capable of learning.”

The end

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These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.

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