The Little Church that Could

by Donna Poole

It had been a glorious autumn day at the little church, the last day of October. The trees in the countryside were still wearing their best colors; their dress had never looked more radiant. Still, as the sun began to lower in the west, the little church on the corner of two dirt roads sagged on its foundation and began to quietly weep. Tears streamed out of its windows and traced paths through the dust on its white sides.

A man with a long black coat flapping below his knees walked rapidly down the road. His walking stick barely touched the ground as little clouds of dirt stirred up around him but didn’t seem to settle on him. His white hair touched his shoulders and made a startling contrast to the coat. He stopped suddenly, looked at the tears of the little church, and glanced up. Then he nodded, turned the corner, and sat on the church’s cement steps.

“Do you mind if I rest here awhile, my friend?”

“All are welcome here,” Little Church said, trying to keep from sobbing.

“I noticed your tears. What seems to be the problem?”

Little Church was used to solving problems for others, not telling others its difficulties. It studied the man sitting on its steps. He had kind, blue eyes above a neat, white beard. Little Church was sure he’d never met him before. Did he dare share his burdens with this stranger?

“Are you from around here?”

“No, my friend, I’m just passing through. I hold many secrets in my heart. Yours are safe with me.”

At that Little Church stopped trying to hold back its sobs. Out spilled its whole bitter story of better days, of days when little children filled pews, of days when there was barely enough room to hold all the people.

“Those were my better days. But there were so many things I couldn’t do that other, bigger churches could. I couldn’t have a variety of Sunday school classes. I couldn’t have wonderful programs and activities for each age group; I didn’t have the room or enough help. I couldn’t keep up with what the people wanted, and I’ve lost so many. They left for bigger and better. I’ve failed the Master, and I’m worried about tomorrow. We have so few children now; who will keep me going so I can be a light here on the corner until Jesus comes?”

“Why do you say the former days were better than these? Can you judge like our Master can judge? And as for tomorrow, like my friend Elisabeth Elliot once said, ‘Tomorrow belongs to God. Tomorrow is none of your business!’”

“Do you know Elisabeth Elliot?”

“Oh yes. We talk often.”

“You speak in present tense, but Elisabeth Elliot is dead!”

“And you are a white frame building, but we are talking, so there is that. Just remember, tomorrow is none of your business!”

The words were stern, but the merry laughter and the kind tone soothed the heart of the little church. Where had this wise man with white hair and long black coat come from?

“You don’t know which of your days will count most for eternity,” the man continued. “God isn’t finished with you yet. So, perhaps you should major on what you could do in the future instead of what you couldn’t.”

All was quiet for several moments. A soft breeze blew from the west where the sun was becoming a glowing, red orb. The very air around the little church seemed to hint of heaven.

The man spoke again. “When Jesus lived on earth, He walked dirt roads much like these. He didn’t have any big programs to entertain people. He had no involved children’s clubs that required many workers; He just took the children on His lap and blessed them. Jesus was a servant who taught with love. Can you listen each Sunday for the ‘whisper of His sandaled feet’ and follow Him? Can you teach, love, and serve?”

“I could. I can listen for Him. Teach, Love, and Serve—that has always been my song, but fear stole my words. Thank you for singing them back to me.”

“You’re welcome,” the man said. “I best be on my way before darkness falls.” He stood, stretched, and picked up his walking stick.

He headed west down the dusty road into the sunset.

“Wait!” Little Church called. “I want to always remember the man who put the song back into my heart. What is your name?”

In a voice that echoed like thunder, the man said, “You may call me Gabriel.”

The black coat turned brighter than the sun, and in a flash of lightning the man disappeared.

Little Church stood tall once more on its foundation and never again forgot what it could do. For some, it would not be enough, but Little Church would teach, love, and serve with joy. And it would remember that tomorrow was none of its business.