The Preacher

Fiction based on fact

by Donna Poole

The preacher’s gnarled hands gripped the steering wheel, and he struggled to keep his eyes opened. He didn’t need to look in the review mirror to know his hair was white and his face lined; he only hoped the discouragement didn’t show on the outside.  As he drove to town he thought of his wife and sighed. There’d been so much he’d wanted to give her through the years, especially now, but so little he’d been able to do. Mostly she’d just wanted more time together, but now the two-week vacation he’d promised her had been reduced to five days at the most and even that was iffy.

She wouldn’t complain; he knew her well after sixty years of marriage. She understood when people needed him, he didn’t leave town. Some pastors might, but he couldn’t. She not only understood, she loved that about him. Still, it was hard. This was to have been their first camping trip in three years.

Cancer had taken a lot from her.

He sighed again. It was lonelier now going to preach at the Medical Care services. She’d always gone with him BC—before cancer, but now her oncology team didn’t think it wise for her to be in a small room crowded with older, sick people. So, he went alone. He’d gone many places alone the last three years. Yes, he was used to it, but it didn’t make it any easier.

The old preacher thought of something his father-in-law had said years before. His wife had asked, “Dad, does life ever get any easier?”

She’d been young then, with long, brown hair and an easy laugh. She still had the easy laugh, but she’d lost all her hair with the chemo treatments, and it had returned thin and white as worn bleached cotton.

Her dad, an old man himself back then had studied her a minute then smiled. “No, honey. Life never gets any easier. But Jesus gets sweeter.”

It’s true. Jesus gets sweeter. If I ever get too old and tired to preach anything else, I can always preach that.

The old preacher was almost to Medical Care. He felt too tired to get out of the car, but he did it. He always did what he had to do.

He walked down the hall and pushed the elevator button. The old people were already singing when he got to the little room.

Why do I call them ‘the old people’? Some of them are younger than I am.

He sang with them and looked around the room. Many of the faces were familiar. Some of the usual ones were gone. That happened more and more often. They were getting older, just like he was, and no one lives forever.

Leah was there. He smiled. If anyone would live forever, it would be Leah. His wife had always liked talking to Leah; they had a connection. They’d both had surgery for brain aneurysms. Leah’s ruptured aneurysm had left her a patient in the Medical Care she’d once worked at.

Leah loved life. She loved Jesus. And she loved telling the other patients what to do. That sometimes didn’t end well. The others didn’t always understand that Leah only bossed them for their own good. They didn’t see her beautiful heart; they only saw one more person telling them what to do, and since this person didn’t have a uniform or a badge, they weren’t having it.

He got up to preach and, as usual, began with a prayer. Instead of starting his sermon he heard himself say, “I’m sorry if I seem tired tonight. My wife and I spent the afternoon in a hospital in Toledo visiting a very sick friend. I had just five minutes at home. Then I visited another woman here in the hospital in Hillsdale and came here to be with you. You may remember my wife isn’t allowed to come here because of her cancer. Tomorrow, we have to leave at five o’clock in the morning because she has a long day at U of M Hospital.”

He gave himself a verbal shaking. Get a grip. You might think you need some rest, but these people would give anything to have the busy life you have. You might feel bad your wife can’t be with you. Some of these people would love to have a mate even if that person was battling cancer.

He shot a silent prayer for help heavenward and began preaching with the love and compassion he was known for, but he was slightly distracted. Leah kept motioning for an aide and whispering loudly.

Oh, no. Is Leah not feeling well?

The aide removed something from Leah’s neck and put into her hand. It didn’t matter that the preacher was in the middle of his sermon. When Leah had something to do; Leah did it.

She wheeled her chair up to the side of the pulpit and motioned for him to put his head down to hers.

“What is it, Leah?”

“Hold out your hand,” she ordered.

He obeyed.

She dropped a cross necklace into his hand.

“This is for your wife. She needs it more than I do. I want her to remember Jesus is with her when she goes to the hospital. Jesus is with her wherever she goes.”

“Well, thank you, Leah.”

“You’re welcome.” She smiled. She wheeled herself back to her place.

He continued with his message, but he really didn’t need to. The preacher had already delivered her excellent sermon.

The old preacher wasn’t as tired going home as he had been driving in. He thought of his wife, exhausted from the long afternoon hospital visit, and probably sleeping. There’d been so much he’d wanted to give her through the years, especially now, but so little he’d been able to do. Mostly she’d just wanted more time together, but now the two-week vacation he’d promised her had been reduced to five days at the most and even that was iffy.

But he had a gift in his pocket he knew would make her smile. He’d wake her and give it to her. She loved Leah.

The cross was a crucifix, and his wife was a Baptist pastor’s wife. She didn’t wear a crucifix, because she worshipped a risen Savior, not one still on the cross, but she’d keep this gift forever. She knew from talking to Leah that she too was trusting a crucified and risen Savior to save her from her sin, not any religion or church, not Catholic, not Baptist. Just Jesus.

And Leah had preached a powerful sermon with her gift, a sermon of one word with four letters. Love.

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

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