by Donna Poole
Tilly was exhausted after teaching Sunday school and hobbled so slowly with her cane she was a bit late getting to the morning service. She squeezed into the back pew and propped her cane against the wall. It promptly fell and hit the hardwood floor with a bang. It also landed on ten-year-old Frank’s foot, and he yelped. People turned to look.
Tilly knew Frank loved drama. He was currently starring as Peter Pan in the elementary school play. And he loved drama out of school too. She glanced at the leather cowboy boots he was wearing; she doubted her cane had hurt as much as he was implying with his loud moans.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Are you okay?” But she was thinking, You little drama king!
Frank, aka Peter Pan, scowled at her and scooted closer to his mother, who ironically was named Wendy, and who loved a bit of drama herself. She glared at Tilly.
Tilly gave Wendy an apologetic look, but she was thinking, It’s not like I threw my cane at your child. Just you wait until you get old, lady. And you had better quit spoiling your little Peter Pan, or he’s never going to grow up.
“This is the day the Lord has made,” the song leader said. “We will rejoice and be glad in it! It’s a beautiful spring morning, so let’s all stand and praise the Lord as we sing hymn….”
I’m not even going to try to stand today. I’m too tired. Young people have no idea how hard it is to rejoice when what works hurts and what doesn’t hurt doesn’t work.
And then in the silence, when the song ended, Tilly dropped her hymnal on the floor. It made an even louder bang than her cane had. She struggled to pick it up; of course, the little drama king didn’t help her, and naturally his mother didn’t tell him to.
What in the world is wrong with people these days?
Tilly finally managed to retrieve the book, but not without leaning sideways into Frank’s space. “Mom,” he said in a stage whisper that even slightly deaf Tilly could hear, “she stinks. I wish she wouldn’t sit in our pew.”
Her face reddened. What do I care what a spoiled ten-year-old thinks?
But she did care. It was meet and greet time and people were talking, so she said to Frank, “I don’t stink. It’s the Bengay.”
“Mom,” Frank said loudly enough to be heard even above the chatter, “she says she doesn’t stink. It’s some gay guy named Ben.”
Frank left for children’s church, and his mother scooted as far away from Tilly as she could.
Good. I don’t really care for your strong Gucci Hoochie Coochi perfume or whatever expensive brand it is.
The pastor walked to the pulpit. He was moving more slowly these days too, though not nearly as slowly as Tilly. He began with Scripture reading, the way he always did, and said, “Let’s all stand in honor to the God of the Word.”
Tilly knew God would understand why she wasn’t standing, but Wendy looked pointedly at her and raised her perfect eyebrows.
Probably gets them waxed at the same place she gets her manicures.
Scripture reading and prayer finished, Pastor Heinzsite chuckled. “I’ve forgotten my visual I meant to bring today. The older I get, the more forgetful I get. That happens as we age, doesn’t it, Deacon Randall?”
There was a bit of uneasy laughter. The deacon’s name was Crandall, not Randall. Was the pastor making one of the jokes he was famous for, or had he really forgotten?
“He should retire,” Wendy mouthed to her.
She didn’t reply. Should he retire? How should she know? That wasn’t for people in the pew to decide, or was it? The church might be better off with a younger, more vibrant man. This one was getting quite old and forgetful. So was she. Should she stop teaching her Sunday school class?
Tilly forced herself to pay attention to what the pastor was saying. He was asking if anyone had a hand mirror. Well, she had one, right in her purse on the floor, but she wasn’t about to struggle to her feet and take it to the front. Finally, someone else offered one.
“I read something recently you may find interesting,” the pastor said. “Did you know a hand mirror can show you yesterday, today, and tomorrow? Watch this. If I hold this mirror above my head and look up, I see what my face looked like ten years ago. If I hold it level with my eyes, I see how I look now.” He stepped from behind the pulpit. “If I hold the mirror at my waist and look down, I see how I’ll look in ten years.” He chuckled. “I imagine some of you can’t wait to try it. You might not like how you will look in ten years. But isn’t it more important to examine how the part of us that will live forever looks? God’s Word is like a mirror. If we pay attention, it shows how we look spiritually, how we’ve progressed or backslidden over the last ten years, how we look now. If we continue on without changing, it even gives us a clue as to how we’ll look ten years from now.”
Tilly rubbed her eyes and yawned. I doubt I’ll be here in ten more years, and if I am, I’ll be ninety years old. I’m not worried about how I’ll look then. I’m just worried about how I’m going to stay awake during this sermon today.
It was a legitimate worry. Tilly didn’t hear Pastor Heinzsite say, “Turn in your Bibles to….” She didn’t hear her own soft snoring or see Wendy scooting back closer to her. She did feel a sharp poke in the ribs and woke to see Wendy shoving a Bible under her nose. It wasn’t the first Sunday Wendy had woken her during a sermon.
Can’t this woman ever mind her own business? I hope she doesn’t come to my funeral. She’ll probably try to wake me up when I’m in my coffin. Another good reason for cremation!
Tilly squinted at the small print in Wendy’s Bible. No way could she read it, but she heard the pastor say, “Be kind one to another, tender hearted, forgiving one another, even as God has forgiven you.”
He held up the mirror. “What does that verse show you about yourself? Are you more forgiving than you were ten years ago? If you continue on the same path, will you be more or less forgiving in ten more years than you are now?”
An invisible hand touched Tilly’s heart, and she immediately resisted it. I didn’t even know Wendy ten years ago, and her spoiled brat boy hadn’t been born yet.
But she knew ten years ago she’d been more patient with people, more loving, more forgiving than she was now. True, she’d been ten years healthier, in less pain, and not nearly as tired. Besides, she was kind outwardly to everyone. Wasn’t that all that mattered?
It was almost as though the pastor had read her thoughts. She hadn’t heard him say where to find the verse, but Wendy poked her again, harder than necessary, because she hadn’t been asleep, just thinking. Wendy tapped the verse as the pastor read, “As a man thinks in his heart, so is he.”
Pastor Heinzsite once again showed the hand mirror. “God cares about your actions, of course, but he also cares about your thoughts. Thoughts have a way of becoming words and actions. That reminds me of a story I heard at the coffee shop this week….”
The congregation loved the pastor’s coffee shop stories. Tilly didn’t care for them. Secretly, she thought he spent entirely too much time at the coffee shop. She was thinking about how to tell him so when she must have drifted off once again, because the next thing she heard was the song leader announcing the final hymn. Tilly stood for that, because she was in a hurry to leave.
It took Tilly some time to limp her way to the door, leaning hard on her cane, and carrying her Bible and her Sunday school material. The pastor stood at the door shaking hands with people as they left. Tilly was next in line, but Wendy and Frank pushed ahead of her.
“Excuse us,” Wendy said, “but Frank has a rehearsal this afternoon and has requested a steak dinner before he goes, so we’re in a bit of a rush.”
Frank looked at Tilly and wrinkled his nose in distaste. “I see you still have Ben with you, your invisible stinky gay boyfriend. Tell him to take a shower before he comes to church next Sunday.”
Wendy laughed. “Isn’t Frank just the cutest? Always has something funny to say. No wonder they picked him as lead in Peter Pan. You do know he’s the lead, don’t you?”
Tilly thought of a hundred things to say, but the little she’d heard of the sermon stopped her. “I’ll pray he does well,” she said.
“Oh, don’t bother,” Wendy said. “He doesn’t need any prayers. He’s a natural.”
The pastor heard the entire thing. As soon as Wendy and Frank were out of earshot, Tilly muttered, “And I hope little Frankenstein falls off the stage and breaks his pride.”
She’d counted on the pastor’s deafness, but she was a little closer to him than she’d thought. He chuckled a deep, low chuckle. “Now, now….”
She sighed, “I know, I know. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry I fell asleep in your sermon.”
He chuckled again. “I noticed, but you’re excused. The doctor said your new medication would make you sleepy until you got used to it. What did you think about the part of the sermon you heard?”
“I thought you’d quit preaching and gone to meddling.”
He laughed. “You look tired, honey. Why don’t you rest when we get home, and I’ll make you one of my famous Western egg sandwiches?”
Tilly found a quiet spot to sit and wait; she knew her husband would be at that door a while yet. She hunted through the pages of her Bible until she found what she was looking for, a prayer of Amy Carmichael’s she’d once prayed every day. The index card she’d written it on was discolored, and the ink was faded, but she could still read it, and she prayed as she read. “Love through me, love of God, /Make me like thy clear air/Through which unhindered, colors pass/As though it were not there.”
Why did I stop praying this every day? I’m going to start again. And I don’t think I’ll say anything to my honey about how much time he spends at the coffee shop. He never says anything to me about my long naps.
She started to talk to God about her bad attitude toward Wendy and Frank but didn’t get very far. When Pastor Heinzsite found her later, she was snoring again.
The end.
***
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
