by Donna Poole
It was a warm Sunday in May 1974 when Jim first preached at Corners Church in rural Hillsdale County, Michigan. The church was looking for a pastor. Darlene was more nervous than Jim was when they pulled into the dirt parking lot next to the tiny, white frame building. They were early, and as they waited for people to arrive, they looked around. They saw open fields or farmhouses in every direction. Dust flew every time the rare truck or tractor went down the gravel road.
As Jim looked at the old church building, white paint peeling from its sides, he remembered what Professor Nick Machiavelli from Bible college had told the divinity students: “If your first church is small, don’t despise the day of small things, but don’t stay there either. Think of it as the first rung on a ladder and aim always to climb to a place of greater usefulness. Climb higher!”
Jim and the other divinity students almost worshipped Professor Machiavelli who had rugged good looks, prematurely gray hair, and an authoritative voice. A child prodigy, the professor had started college young. Though he had his doctorate, he was only a a few years older than his students. Jim felt there was something almost apostolic about him andkept an entire notebook he’d titled “Machiavelli’s Maxims.” He’d memorized most of the sayings. But, something about the “climb higher” advice made Jim feel uneasy, and he didn’t know why.
Jim mentioned his feelings to Darlene as they sat in the parking lot, but she had other worries. She was expecting their second baby and couldn’t seem to stay awake. She hoped she didn’t fall asleep in Jim’s sermon. Also, April, their daughter, wasn’t quite two, and Darlene was concerned about how she was going to act during a long day filled with strangers. She looked back at their toddler who had blessedly fallen asleep on the long drive. Maybe the nap would help her behave.
Darlene grinned, remembering a story she’d read about a pastor’s wife whose husband was preaching at a church he hoped would hire him. Unlike Darlene, this woman was a fantastic piano player, and she thought it might help her husband’s chances of being called as pastor if she volunteered to play the offertory. She felt apprehensive as she left her three-year-old in the back pew and went up to play her special number.
“Be good until Mommy comes back,” she whispered. He looked at her and nodded, his brown eyes bright, his yellow curls making him look like the angel he wasn’t.
She was into the most impressive part of her offertory when she heard her little boy shout, “Ride ‘em, cowboy!”
Horrified, she glanced back to see him straddling the pew, pretending to ride a horse. She abruptly ended the offertory before the ushers had even half-finished collecting the offering.
She hurried back to her pew, and when her son saw her coming, he hollered, “Giddyup, Old Paint. Faster! Bad guy coming!”
Darlene wondered if their angel would behave while Jim preached. She doubted it.
First impressions matter, and Darlene worried about what the congregation would think of her as a potential pastor’s wife. With her straight hair that hung past her waist, her long skirt, and no paint or polish, she thought she looked more like an ad for a hippie clothing company than a pastor’s wife. She knew she couldn’t measure up to the previous pastor’s wife, but maybe the congregation would like her a little.
Darlene reached over and smoothed Jim’s hair back. He only sat that stiff and straight when he was nervous. She didn’t think it would boost his confidence to tell him he looked more like he was sixteen than twenty-five. His light brown hair insisted on falling on his forehead, and his serious brown eyes looked like a little boy’s expecting a scolding.
A few cars pulled into the parking lot, and Jim, Darlene, and April went into the church. The tiny building was charming with its stained-glass windows, native lumber wainscoting, and bare hardwood floors. Including the three of them, there were fifteen people in the congregation.
Darlene sat quietly, listening to Jim preach, until April whispered, “Potty, potty!”
“Can you wait?”
April shook her head vigorously. Darlene looked around. Where in this tiny building could there possibly be a bathroom?
She tapped an older woman in front of her on the shoulder. “Where’s the bathroom?” she whispered. Darlene sat back in the pew, confused by the answer. Maybe she hadn’t heard correctly.
“You have to wait,” Darlene told April.
“No! Potty! Potty!” April was getting louder.
Darlene touched the older lady on the shoulder again. “Where did you say the bathroom was?”
This time the answer was louder, and there was no mistaking when she said, “Outside and around back.”
The heavy, wooden church door creaked as Darlene tugged it open. Outside and around back she went. She stood there a minute and laughed. The bathroom was an outhouse.
As Darlene and April exited the outhouse, she wondered how they would wash their hands. There was no running water. She felt frustrated for a minute, but as she looked out over the fields, she felt a deep peace. If Jim was sure he wanted to be a preacher, then she hoped God would call them to this church. She already loved the simplicity of this place.
Darlene loved simplicity. So many large churches complicated things and handled church more like a corporation than a ministry.
Darlene agreed with her friend Julie who said, “Churches didn’t get complicated until they got electric lights to show off their stained-glass windows.”
As they went back inside the church, Darlene considered what to do about hand washing. Then she remembered the wet washcloth she’d tucked into the diaper bag. It would have to do. She washed her hands and April’s and hoped that would be the last trip she’d ever have to make to the outhouse. It wasn’t.
