 
On Which Side of the Road  
Do The Flowers Grow?

Wendell E. Mettey
On Which Side of the Road Do The Flowers Grow?

by Wendell E. Mettey

Copyright 2009 by Wendell E. Mettey

All rights reserved. Written permission must be secured from the publisher to use or reproduce any part of this book, except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2008937562

ISBN: 978-1-57736-414-6

Cover and interior illustrations by Larry Keller

Cover design by LeAnna Massingille

Page design by Joey McNair

Unless otherwise indicated, Scripture quotations are taken from THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House.

Scripture quotations marked KJV are taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version, Cambridge, 1796.

Sweet Beulah Land by Squire Parsons. ©1979 Kingsmen Publishing/BMI. All rights reserved. Used by permission.

The Gathering by Ken Medema. ©1977 Word Music LLC. All rights reserved. Used by permission.

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Other books by Wendell E. Mettey

ARE NOT MY PEOPLE WORTHY?

WHAT GOD DESIRES

Rev. Wendell E. Mettey has a master of divinity degree from Southern Baptist Theological Seminary. He pastored the Walnut Hills Baptist Church and Montgomery Community Baptist Church in the Cincinnati area before founding Matthew 25: Ministries, a nonprofit organization dedicated to aiding the poor and suffering throughout the world. He also founded and pastored the Church of Matthew 25, and is the author of numerous devotional and inspirational publications. He and his wife, Mickey, have three children and six grandchildren.
This book is dedicated to my parents, Mary and Joe Mettey, and my wife's parents, Katherine and Harry Keller. Without their love and encouragement, I would never have found the side of the road where the flowers grow.
They [the Israelites] continued, "Let them [Gibeonites] live, but let them be woodcutters and water carriers for the entire community." . .  Then Joshua summoned the Gibeonites and said, "Why did you deceive us . .  ? You are now under a curse: You will never cease to serve as woodcutters and water carriers for the house of my God."  
(Josh. 9:21–23 NIV)

The Hebrew word for a carrier of water is shaab-mayim. There is no job in all the Old Testament lower in status than a shaab-mayim.
Contents

Preface

Acknowledgments

Prologue:

The Carrier of Water

Irene and Jean:

Caustic Spirit Meets Human Whisperer

Dorothy and Thelma:

Beyond Capacity

Oscar:

From the Kitchen Stool to Sanctuary Pew

Charles, Bert, and Bill

Welcome, Pardon, Cleanse, Relieve

Carl and Ed

The Little Flowers

Mary:

The Tourist

Beulah:

Got Me a Church and a Big, Yellow Bus

Walter:

All-Pro Human Being

Dr. Arthur E. Cowley:

Large Shoes to Fill

Zell and Douglas:

Saved by a Fall, Loved by All

Maxine, George, Garland, and Ray:

The Gathering 95

Maybelle, India, and Velma

Hard on the Outside, Soft in the Middle

Esaf:

Divinely Possessed

Elwin:

The Blemished Painter

Wilma:

Wondering Where God Is

Mary and Joe:

The Lord's Been Good to Me

Epilogue:

The Miracle of the Jars

Additional Works by Rev. Wendell E. Mettey

Preface

About the Church

On August 15, 1872, the Walnut Hills Baptist Church was formally organized with twenty-nine charter members. By 1925, the church entered into a major expansion program to accommodate its growth. Manufacturer and businessman Dr. C. M. Peters and his wife kicked off the capital campaign with a generous gift of twenty-five thousand dollars. The plans called for a new educational wing, an expanded sanctuary, and a new façade to the existing stone edifice.

As the educational wing neared completion, excavation began on a larger furnace room. Sometime before dawn on Tuesday, June 23, 1925, the shoring gave way, causing the sanctuary and the new education building to collapse into a pile of rubble. Only the front wall of the sanctuary and the large tower at the front of the building remained standing.

Needless to say, this was a tragedy of monumental proportion for the church. The membership had given sacrificially to the building fund, and now they faced the seemingly insurmountable task of rebuilding what was destroyed, including a new sanctuary. Many wondered if the church would be able to survive such a blow.

The next day, the church stretched a twenty-five-foot sign across the rubble with this message on it:

ARE WE DISCOURAGED? NO!  
WE WILL BUILD A BIGGER  
AND BETTER WALNUT HILLS  
BAPTIST CHURCH.

And that is what they did! The Sunday following the disaster, a congregational meeting was called. After much discussion and numerous inspirational speeches, the membership pledged thirty-eight thousand dollars toward a new sanctuary. More resolute than ever, the membership went on to build a bigger and better church.

Twenty-five years later, the church faced another challenge, but this time it wasn't caused by brick and mortar. During the late 1950s and '60s, members of inner-city churches (sometimes entire congregations) moved to the suburbs. The Walnut Hills Baptist Church suffered the same fate when members moved to outlying communities and joined congregations closer to their homes. Again the church faced the real possibility of closing its doors. Against all odds, the remaining members made a courageous commitment to stay and serve the community.

While they did not erect a sign as did the 1925 Walnut Hills Baptist Church, the sentiment of the 1972 congregation was the same:

ARE WE DISCOURAGED? NO!  
WE WILL BUILD A BIGGER  
AND BETTER WALNUT HILLS  
BAPTIST CHURCH

About the People

The people you are about to meet are real. Their stories actually happened. While most have died, they live on in my memory and represent a small handful of the fascinating people I had the privilege of serving when I was pastor of Walnut Hills Baptist Church. To me, they reflect the diversity of God's creation, the power of the human spirit, and the depth of God's amazing grace.

To say that they were traditional churchgoers would be like calling the Mighty Mississippi a muddy creek. Likewise, their stories would not make the evening news or appear in the briefest footnote. Some believed they were cursed; I thought they were just human. They were your common, everyday variety of people who had more than their share of warts, blemishes, dings, chips, cracks, and imperfections. Yet they taught me more about being a Christian than all of my degrees and training. I discovered how much God loved them and how He used them (warts and all) to touch my life and the lives of others. God loved them, not in spite of their imperfections, but because of them.

When Jesus called Nathaniel to be His disciple, He said Nathaniel had no "guile" in him (John 1:47 KJV). In other words, he was not a deceitful person. He didn't play games. What you saw is what you got. And so it was with these whom God loved. They were not pretentious, nor did they know how to be. Their imperfections were there for all to see. They did not have the means or desire to conceal them. They were simply, as the apostle Paul would say, "working out their salvation with fear and trembling" (Phil. 2:12).

When Jesus said, "It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick. . .  For I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners" (Matt. 9:12–13), they had only one question, "Is the doctor seeing patients today?"

From 1972–80 and 1992–97, I traveled the dusty path with the people you are about to meet. Walking with them, I discovered that no matter how flawed we are, God does not throw us away. If we allow Him, He can work through our weaknesses to glorify Himself and bring beauty into our lives and the lives of others. I saw for myself "on which side of the road the flowers grew."

And God said to me [Paul], "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness."

(2 Cor. 12:9)
Acknowledgments

I wish to acknowledge, with deep appreciation, the I following people who helped me tell the stories of some of the most fascinating people you will ever meet—Larry Keller, whose artistry brought to life the "road where the flowers grow" just how I imagined it; Karen Otto, Matthew 25: Ministries staff, for typing and editing the stories of the people who walked that road; Kelly Bainbridge, for encouraging me to tell their stories and her co-worker Elaine Wilson and the staff at Providence House Publishers for tidying up the road; Joodi Archer, Matthew 25: Ministries staff, for all her technical assistance; Mickey Mettey, for being such a wonderful stay-at-home mom and helpmate while I was gone a lot walking that road; the people you will meet and the many others whose stories remain unwritten but who will always live in my memory; and our Great God who loved them and us, cracks and all.
On Which Side of the Road  
Do The Flowers Grow?
Prologue

The Carrier of Water

There once lived a very unhappy man who was a carrier of water. He hated carrying water and despised his master for giving him such a lowly job. "Carrying water is a job for women," he complained. "It certainly is not a job for a strong and capable servant."

To escape the giggling and whispers of the women who gathered at the well each morning, he would arrive at first light, draw his water and be on his way. To lessen the number of trips to the well, he tied a large clay jar to each end of a long, sturdy pole. After lifting the pole over his head, he would rest it on his shoulders. He could now carry twice as much water. The extra weight, however, made the journey twice as strenuous. Regardless of the ancient curse Joshua placed on his ancestors, the Gibeonites, the water carrier remained hopeful that one day the curse would be broken and the master would recognize his many talents.

When the days grew hot and the jars heavy, he'd say, "Someday I'm going to be my master's wine steward, or perhaps . .  yes, the treasurer of his vast estate. I'm going to have an important job, and then I'll be an important person."

Unfortunately, that day never came. He would never be able to break the curse. He would always be a carrier of water. His master, who he knew to be a wise and just man, for whatever reason, chose not to give him a job of greater importance. The man's constant complaining made it most evident to his master and to the entire household that he did not want to be a carrier of water. They all heard him say countless times how overqualified he was for the job and that other servants with half his abilities were promoted past him. Greatly discouraged, his performance began slipping. His lowly job was completely draining his last ounce of self-worth.

Then one day it happened. It had been there all along, but he hadn't noticed it before. A little thing actually, yet big enough to completely change his life forever. Looking down at it, he smiled. At that very moment, he realized that while he could not change his job, his job did not determine who he was as a person. He had no control over the job the master gave him, only how he would perform it. There it was at his feet—a delicate, beautiful example of how any job given by the master, if he was obedient, could bring about something wonderful.

From that day on, his job did not change, but he certainly did. He could now see that the job the master gave him had the importance he gave it. His job was no longer just a carrier of water, but one that brought beauty and joy into the lives of the countless people who traveled that dusty road.

He no longer went to the well before first light, but arrived with the others. Soon the giggling and whispering were replaced with meaningful conversations and the sharing of life's concerns. With his changed attitude came peace and joy. People were attracted to him and would seek him out for advice and direction for their lives. He still carried the large, clay jars to and from the well each day, but now with new meaning and added purpose.

One day, a fellow traveler motioned for him to stop. They had shared that dusty road for many years, but their journeys always took them in different directions. A smile, a polite hello, and a brief comment about the weather had been the extent of their conversations. But today, the man wanted more than a brief exchange.

The carrier of water lifted his water-filled jars over his head and rested them on the ground. He wiped the perspiration from his forehead and his neck. "It's a beautiful day," said the carrier of water.

"Yes, too hot for me," the other man said. "I have a question," he continued. "I've been meaning to ask you something, but we are always in such a hurry and going our different ways. I have wondered about this for a long time."

"Yes, what's your question?" replied the carrier of water.

"Well, it's evident to me that you're a hard worker.You bring honor to your master and his household . .  and please understand me, I am not implying that you do not know what you are doing."

"Go ahead, friend, what is your question?"

"It has to do with your clay jars," the man said. "One jar is perfect in every way. It has no cracks, chips . .  the lid fits tightly. It is free from any blemish. Not a drop of water is lost from this jar. But, the other jar. It has cracks and chips everywhere and the lid wobbles terribly. Water spills from this jar. The jar has to be half empty by the time you reach your destination." The man paused for a moment, shaking his head as he continued, "Why don't you replace it with a new jar? Surely your master will allow you to purchase a new one, one more efficient!"

Looking back at the path he had just traveled, the carrier of water smiled and said with great delight, "Look, my friend . .  you tell me. On which side of the road do the flowers grow?

"They do not grow on the side of the perfect jar. You are correct, not a drop of water is lost from the perfect jar. The side of the road where the flowers grow is on the side of the imperfect jar, the one with cracks, the imperfect one. It is the blemished and worn jar that brings the flowers to life in the spring and waters them all summer long.

"Once I was consumed with bitterness," the carrier confessed, "until that day when I saw those flowers at my feet. I looked at that old, weathered, cracked jar. I realized then that the master could use me, imperfections and all, to bring beauty into my life and the lives of others. On which side of the road do the flowers grow? Not on the side of the perfect jar, but on the side of the one you would have me throw away—the one with all the imperfections."
Irene and Jean

Caustic Spirit Meets Human Whisperer

"Oh no, it's Irene."

Irene, the person who gave a new meaning to the word "negative" and was thought to be the originator of panic attacks. Once in Irene's conversational clutches, you simply could not break free. The most positive, patient saints of our church tried to befriend Irene. One by one, they fell victim to her sharp tongue and caustic spirit. She was known as the "sigh" lady. When you saw Irene, that's exactly what you'd say and do: "Oh no, it's Irene," and sigh.

That's what I thought that day when I was greeting parishioners after the morning worship. There Irene stood in the corner of the foyer, waiting for the last church member to move on so she could move in and have me all to herself. Sure enough, she made her move. I braced myself and prayed to God to give me the words to free her from what must be a painful existence. I also began developing an exit strategy if my prayer wasn't answered.

They say that at the moment of some dramatic experience, your life flashes before you. It wasn't my life, but Irene's life with our church that flashed before my eyes.

I remember the first Sunday Irene walked into our large sanctuary. On Sundays in the 1950s, the sanctuary was often S.R.O. (standing room only). When Irene began attending, the 450-seat sanctuary hosted no more than a hundred worshippers on Sundays. The church had barely survived the great exodus of people from the inner city to the suburbs in the '60s. Those who continued to attend made certain that the doors of the church were opened wide to the people of the community. The church had a much deserved reputation for being a loving, inviting, and accepting group of people. The church was a magnet for people like Irene, who got the tag "incorrigible."

From our first meeting, I suspected that the Lord had sent one of His most difficult cases our way. If we could not reach Irene, well, we were the end of the line. She had alienated herself from every church in the community. It was only after our first encounter that I made the connection: this was the person who was the topic of conversation at monthly clergy meetings. Immediately, she began displaying behavior that made her persona non grata, an unwelcome person, with the other churches. She found fault with everything: the choir was awful, the music selection was dreadful, the sanctuary was either too hot or too cold, the sermons were too long. Listening to her go on and on, I pressed my lips together, raised my eyebrows, and whispered to myself, "So you must be Irene. May God have mercy on our souls."

Four months later, she was standing before me, pointing to something in the church bulletin. Irene was of medium height and very thin, one could even say rather bony. She pulled her grey hair straight back into a bun, which drew attention to her perpetually furrowed brow. Irene was in her late seventies and always wore a sweater, even in the summer.

"I can do this," she said tapping her arthritic finger on the worship bulletin.

"Do what, Irene?" I asked timidly.

"Play the piano for the children. Don't you read your own announcements?" she barked.

Several weeks before, Jean, the director of our children's ministry, had spoken to me about finding someone who could play the piano for the children in our primary department. We placed the announcement in the bulletin and this was what Irene was volunteering to do.

I just stood there speechless . .  unable to utter a single syllable.

"You play the piano?" I asked, hoping that I had misunderstood her. "Please, God," I whispered to myself, "if I didn't misunderstand her, strike me deaf."

"Yes," she said.

"Uh . .  uh . .  I didn't know you played."

"Silent movies," she said. "I played for silent movies."

"Silent movies, really," I mumbled. "Well, this is for little children. Songs like 'Jesus Loves Me.' You know, simple songs for children." (For the first time as a pastor, I was trying to dissuade someone who wanted to volunteer in the church.)

"I know," she insisted. "I can play children's songs." "Okay," I said. "I'll talk to Jean."

JEAN'S MAIDEN NAME WAS ZLATYKANICY. HER FAMILY immigrated from Poland at the turn of the twentieth century. They settled in West Newton, Pennsylvania. Jean's father became a coal miner; her mother was a stay-at-home mom with five children. Jean was the middle child. When Jean was barely six, her mother died. All five children went to live with an aunt who played a major role in raising Jean and her siblings. Common for the time, the girls went to school until they graduated from the eighth grade; they then had to get a job. The boys were allowed to finish high school. Jean took her first full-time job when she was fifteen years old.

Jean moved to Hamilton, Ohio, and soon married. Her husband left for work one day early in their marriage, but never returned. Tragically, he drowned in a huge vat at the brewery where he worked. Jean suffered another hard blow in 1948 when she was diagnosed with tuberculosis. She stayed at the Dunham Hospital in Cincinnati, Ohio, for eighteen months. Bedridden and wondering what life had in store for her, she met her future husband, who was visiting a relative at the sanitarium.

In 1952, they were married and soon had two daughters, Patty and Mary. Jean's difficulties continued, however, when her husband developed cancer. Attempting to stop the cancer from spreading, he underwent several painful surgeries of the mouth. Along with her two daughters, Jean was caring for a husband who was relying upon feeding tubes to stay alive. Jean never complained. It was said that her care made it possible for him to stay home until he died.

In the late 1960s, Jean's daughter began attending the youth group of the church. I was the youth director. When I came back from seminary three years later, Jean was attending Sunday services with her daughters. She eventually joined the church, and I had the joy of baptizing her. A few months later, we discovered that Jean possessed an incredible gift.

During the 1970s, an ecumenical organization called the Council of Christian Communions developed a program with the public schools called Released Time. Parents permitting, the fourth through sixth graders were released from school, usually after lunch, to go to a neighborhood church for what was called "spiritual enrichment." No indoctrination into a particular denomination took place. It was forty-five minutes of games, Bible stories, and refreshments; a wonderful opportunity for inner-city children to be around positive, loving people who were there because they wanted to be.

We were having a difficult time getting the neighborhood children to come to Sunday school. So when the Released Time program needed a place to meet, we immediately offered our church building. We decided if we couldn't get the children to come to Sunday school, then we'd get them to come to Tuesday school. Many of our Sunday school teachers volunteered to also be Tuesday teachers. We were then faced with the task of finding someone to head up the program. Instead of a couple dozen children on Sunday, our Tuesday school's enrichment program had more than 125! Jean was asked and she said yes without hesitation.

They say that when someone has a connection with a living being, they are called "whisperers." In the movies, Rex Harrison (known as Dr. Dolittle) could talk with the animals; Robert Redford is known as the horse whisperer. In real life, Cesar Milan of television fame is known as the dog whisperer. Well, Jean, as we learned, was a child whisperer. Her connection with children was amazing. I don't believe I ever saw a child misbehave around her, and if so, not for very long. She would never raise her voice or scream across the room, "NO! NO! NO!" She never coerced, threatened, scolded, or counted to three. Children simply did what Jean asked them to do. When they were with Jean, they felt safe, protected, and loved. She was certainly a child whisperer, but she was also an adult whisperer. She connected with the child in all of us.

Jean would never appear on the cover of a fashion magazine. Her beauty was deep, not superficial. Her tired eyes reflected a hard life, yet were filled with compassion and concern. Her wisdom and attitude did not come from the classroom, but from the experiences of life and the difficult lessons they taught her. She lived a life of less so others could have more. Living a life of simplicity was not a choice she made, but was just who she was. Those who were troubled seemed to find their way to Jean. Her common sense, contagious laugh, and firm yet gentle spirit were in great demand. If anyone could deal with Irene, Jean would be that person.

There was nothing I could do but give Irene the opportunity. As much as I wanted to, I could not tell Irene that she could not play for the children. This was the first positive thought Irene had since visiting our church, maybe even in her life!

The day finally arrived. I personally took Irene to the primary department and officially introduced her to Jean and the children. As I slowly left the room, Irene went immediately to the piano. The last thing I saw was Jean smiling and mouthing, "It will be just fine!"

I stood out in the hallway of the Sunday school room, like a SWAT team ready to rush in at any moment and save the children. Soon I heard the piano playing and the children singing. I later discovered that Irene didn't read music. If you could hum it, she could play it. Her playing still had that silent music style to it, but judging from their loud and enthusiastic singing, the children liked it.

Sunday after Sunday, Irene was at the church building long before the custodian opened the doors. She lived for that day and time. A few weeks later, I visited the classroom. The children were hanging all over her as she played the piano. Irene loved every minute of it. I had never seen her smile the way she did that day.

Irene then learned that we needed someone to play the piano for a weekly Bible study we had started in one of the large apartment buildings in our neighborhood. Rain or shine, she was there every Thursday at 10:00 AM. She delighted all those who attended, mostly African Americans who never sang "Amazing Grace" the way Irene played it. Those Thursdays turned into a lovefest that greatly enriched all who attended.

Irene was transformed before our eyes. She was Lazarus raised from the dead. As the apostle Paul would say, the old person was gone and the new person had moved in. Gradually, the "Oh no," was replaced with simply, "It's Irene." Instead of going out of their way to avoid her, people now would go out of their way to talk with her. She became a joy to know and be around. Her transformation was of Ebenezer Scrooge proportions. If you complimented Irene, she'd gently push you away saying, "Oh, you don't mean that!" which she loved to hear and say.

Something happened along the way that held that beautiful spirit in bondage. It took the love of those children and the patience of a beautiful Polish lady to bring it out.

Several years later, Irene missed Sunday school and the Thursday Bible studies. We were worried and had the building superintendent give us access to her apartment. All the shades were pulled down; she lay in bed, unresponsive. We took her to the emergency room, where we were told she had fallen into a deep depression, a disease she had lived with all of her life, but never properly treated. She went to live with her daughter in New Jersey. Several months later, I received a note saying that Irene had died. Her daughter said she died peacefully and that the loving mother she once knew had come home.

Sometimes, when I'd be all alone in the church building, I could hear Irene playing while the children were singing the silent-movie version of "Jesus Loves Me."

DURING A COLD JANUARY DAY IN 1984, WE LAID TO REST our dearest and most precious Jean. A few weeks before she died, I went to see her in the hospital. The cancer that had taken her husband's life was now about to take hers. I was now serving another church and hadn't seen Jean for several months. At the end of our visit, we prayed together. I leaned over and we embraced. I whispered in her ear how much I loved her and how much she had meant to my life. As I raised up, she pulled me close to her and held me tightly, "Good-bye, Wendell, good-bye!" She knew we would not see one another again this side of paradise.

As I got to the door, I looked back. We exchanged smiles. Her room was blanketed with all the flowers she watered in life. Imperfect like us all, yet used by God to bring so much beauty into the world.
Dorothy and Thelma

Beyond Capacity

Frail and sickly, the slightest breeze would have blown her over. Every breath she took was a tortuous undertaking. The doctors didn't really know what it was, nor could they attach a name to it. All they would say (in layman's terms) was that her lungs were turning to stone. Whatever it was, it was painfully and prematurely taking Dorothy's life. Dorothy and her eleven-year-old grandson, Danny, lived in a small second-floor apartment. Every Sunday they would faithfully come to Sunday school and worship service. They only lived a few blocks from the church building, but it might as well have been a continent away. Every few steps Dorothy would stop, raise her head, and gasp for air. Danny, ever so attentively, would hold his grandmother's arm and patiently wait for her to continue the journey. Dorothy was as determined as she was ill. She continually refused rides from church members. "I'm not an invalid," she'd say, smiling and waving them on.

The summers in Cincinnati sizzle. This particular year in the mid-seventies, we were all wilting under record-breaking temperatures and high humidity. Two of the deacons from the church, Thelma and Margaret, were visiting our shut-ins. That afternoon they called me from Dorothy's apartment. A thermometer mounted on the window frame read ninety-five degrees. Dorothy was lying on her bed gasping for air. Her only relief was an old oscillating fan, which was doing little more than moving around the hot, stale air. Dorothy needed help, and fast!

Air conditioners were considered a luxury then. Department stores and shopping centers had them, but the only homes with central air conditioning were found in the suburbs. If you wanted to escape from the heat in the inner city, you sat on a covered porch or the stoop. Dorothy's house did not have either, nor could she use them if her building had them. Dorothy needed an air conditioner. We were not, however, a wealthy church. I closed my eyes and prayed. When I opened my eyes, there it was before me.

Sometime in the late '50s, a couple of sisters left a considerable amount of stock for the purpose of making sure that there would always be a nice study for the pastor. There was one stipulation; only the dividends from the stock could be used. When the one-hundred-year-old ceiling in the fellowship hall came crashing down (miraculously missing twenty preschoolers at lunch), we received permission from their heirs to use some of the dividends to replace the ceiling. Again, always sympathetic to our financial needs, they asked that we abide by the wishes of their deceased relatives. The study had just recently been redecorated, complete with a new, window-mounted air conditioner.

I picked up the phone and called the church treasurer, "The study needs a new air conditioner."

"What's wrong with the new one we just installed?" he asked.

"I don't like the color," I replied.

"Color? It doesn't have a color. It's grey, if you call that a color," he responded. He knew I was never frivolous with the Lord's money. He paused and said, "Oh, I see . .  Dorothy." I have always been amazed by how quickly news travels in the church.

When the new air conditioner arrived at the church building, purchased out of the study fund account, Al and Fred said that the one that they had purchased would not fit the window in the study. I said that was okay. I had changed my mind anyway. I liked the color after all. "Let's go to Dorothy's."

An hour later, her apartment had cooled down considerably. Able to breathe and talk, she faintly whispered, "God bless you. Thank you so much!"

A month later, Dorothy was rushed to the hospital. The news was not good. Her condition had deteriorated to the point where she could not take care of Danny any longer, nor could she go back to her apartment. Dorothy was transferred to Drake Hospital, a long-term care facility, the end of the road for most patients.

Each visit found Dorothy's condition getting worse. Dorothy was drowning in her own body's fluid, a horrible way to die. Most visits, I would do nothing but hold her hand during protracted coughing episodes. Her hospital gown draped over her bony, petite frame, her skin was ashen, her lips blue, her eyes were sunken with dark circles. She could not keep her hands and feet warm. The oxygen tube irritated her nostrils and made her lips and mouth dry. Through it all, she kept smiling. Every time I visited and prayed with her, I knew it could be the last.

One day, Dorothy greeted me with a big smile and the words, "Reverend Mettey, I have some good news." To my astonishment she said, "I'm going home."

I had been with parishioners who, when there was a lack of oxygen, would hallucinate. "That's nice," I said.

Hearing the disbelief in my voice, she pointed to her bedside table. On it was a card propped up against her water pitcher. The message on the card read, "You and God are greater than any problem." Not wanting to give her false hope, I attempted to put those words in their proper context. I tried to explain them from a theological perspective. "God will always be there with us and give us the strength to meet the difficulties of life," I explained. "God can do all things, but He often does not choose to do all things. If He cannot deliver us from our trouble, He'll deliver us in our trouble."

Dorothy listened politely. When I finished, she smiled and raised an eyebrow. "I'm going home, and I am going to be baptized." In our Baptist faith, the person being baptized is immersed completely under water. I told her I had baptized by sprinkling water when a person was bedridden. "These were some of my most meaningful baptisms," I told her.

"No, Reverend Mettey, I'm going to be baptized in the baptistry at our church," she proclaimed.

"Okay, Dorothy," I said knowing there was nothing more to discuss. "Let's pray for you to be baptized at church."

Leaving the hospital, I ran into her doctor. He assured me that Dorothy could never do that; she could never leave her bed. Shaking his head, he said with medical certainty, "She doesn't have long to live!"

WHEN I GOT BACK TO THE CHURCH, I CALLED THELMA.

If Thelma had lived in Jesus' day, He would have called her to be one of His disciples. Christ's unconditional love had no greater ambassador than Thelma. She moved into the community with her husband and three daughters (Sandra, Ge-Ann, and Sally) in the 1940s. They stayed when most of their neighbors left for the suburbs. Thelma had four loves in her life: her family, her friends, her church, and her community.

Thelma received limited classroom education. She would never be the one to stand up at some momentous occasion and give a powerful, persuasive speech. She'd let the PhDs, politicians, and civic leaders do that. No, she was one to work behind the scenes. She was constantly asked to serve on boards and committees in the community and church. She always said yes. She was sought after by everyone, not only because she was loyal, dedicated, and capable, but because she was so well respected and carried a lot of weight in the church and community.

Thelma, like Jean, was the epitome of a biblical servant. She lived her life for others, not with a long, pious face, but with joy and laughter. Thelma was a safe haven for those frightened and alone, an oasis for those thirsting for God's love and His forgiveness. She was always accepting and would never cast blame or turn away the sinner. She was not the judge or prosecutor. Thelma was the embodiment of the father in the parable of the Prodigal Son, who, when his sinful son came home, threw a great party for him. Thelma's life was one grand party.

Thelma's husband, Ed, worked in the coal mines of Kentucky. He contracted black lung disease and coughed continually, a deep, wrenching cough 24/7. Thelma cared for him at home for years until he died. Thelma's life was not easy.

In her backyard was a beautiful garden. Thelma had a green thumb and, as a fellow gardener, was always showing me some new flowers she had planted. Her backyard was complete with flowers, pottery, mobiles, chimes, song birds, and a fish pond—a stark contrast to the blight and neglected inner city around her. Thelma was more than a gardener—she was a fantastic cook, an activist, a fashionable dresser, a fun person with a beautiful smile and a joyous laugh. She had broad shoulders to cry on, she was a friend you could rely upon, and most important, she had a deep, abiding faith in Jesus.

Yes, it is so true that after God created Thelma, He threw away the mold.

Thelma was my go-to person when I needed some wisdom and advice. How do you encourage someone to believe in miracles, but know that we live in a world of harsh realities? There is hope and then there is false hope. I asked Thelma to help me with Dorothy. I told her what Dorothy said and that, according to medical opinion, Dorothy wasn't going anywhere but her bed.

Returning from vacation, I checked in with Thelma and then went to see Dorothy at the hospital. When I walked into her room, I just stood there in disbelief. There was Dorothy sitting on her bed, legs dangling over the side. Her feet sported a pair of fuzzy, pink slippers. Thoroughly enjoying her lunch, she wiped up the last bit of gravy on her plate with a piece of bread. "Reverend Mettey, I'm going home!" I did not think I'd see her alive when I returned, and there she was with her color back, eyes sparkling, eating, happy, and sitting up.

A nurse came into the room and said cheerfully, "If she keeps it up, she can go home in a week or two."

I later saw the doctor. He just smiled and shook his head. "I've never seen anything like it. Yes, she can go home—that is, if she can get some help." And that is where Thelma and the ladies of the church took over. They cleaned her apartment, took turns visiting her, and made sure she always had plenty of food in her refrigerator.

Healing is a mystery. Each time that I pray for healing, I lay my hands upon the person just as Jesus did. I always pray for spiritual as well as physical healing, but always in God's will. I have seen miraculous healing, and I have seen those who I thought would be healed but were not. It was not that I did not believe God could heal Dorothy. (Of course He could; God can do all things.) It was the overwhelming medical evidence that indicated otherwise. Whether we are healed or not, God uses everything for some purpose, a greater purpose than we often can see. What purpose did God have in Dorothy coming home? In her weakened condition, what flowers would she water and cause to blossom?

Surprisingly, her old apartment had not been rented and her furniture was still there. Danny wanted to come back and live with his grandmother, which he did. Thelma called me to say that Dorothy wanted to get baptized the next Sunday. It was now late autumn and the church building was cold and drafty. I expressed concern for Dorothy catching a cold, or worse, pneumonia. While she and God overcame the task of getting home, Dorothy was far from being healed. Time, however, was not a luxury we could afford.

Thelma and Margaret picked up Dorothy and brought her to service the next Sunday to be baptized. In order to enter the baptistry, she had to take off her oxygen. I told her I could pour the water over her, but she insisted upon complete immersion. She said God had made her a promise one night lying in her hospital bed. She didn't say what it was, but whatever it was, it was being fulfilled in our presence.

To enter the baptistry, the pastor and candidates had to walk up and down eight steps. I first entered the water on the right, she on the left. We made sure the water was warm. I greeted the congregation and spoke about the meaning of baptism, then reached out my hand for Dorothy to enter the waters of baptism.

At the top of the stairs, she took off her oxygen hose and gave it to Thelma. Dorothy took my extended hand and slowly came down the steps. Her baptismal robe billowed as she walked into the water. She held it down with one arm. She looked at me and giggled. I noticed that her breathing was not labored. It was as if a peace came over her. I held her next to me, facing a noticeably moved and tearful congregation. I read a passage of Scripture and asked her if she accepted Jesus as her Lord and Savior. "Yes, yes," she said. Tears streaming down both of our faces, I lowered her into the water and then raised her up. I whispered to her, "There is no problem greater than you and God." The congregation erupted with shouts of praise and joy.

A few months later, Dorothy returned to Drake Hospital; Danny went to live with his mother. That spring, Dorothy died.

We really didn't know much about Dorothy. Her breaths were too precious to be used up in conversation. In a short amount of time, however, we got to know volumes about the person she was and the faith in God she possessed. She watered our faith through her illness and caused flowers to grow up in our lives and our spirit.

Her message to us was simply: don't ever give up!

Thelma's life also caused flowers to grow through the difficulties she faced and the hardships she endured. Thelma had many virtues, but the one that endeared her to so many was how she was able to accept us for who we were. Years later, we laid Thelma to rest in the old chapel at the Spring Grove Cemetery. Before the service began, I looked out at the many who came to say good-bye to Thelma. That nineteenth-century chapel was filled beyond capacity with the most eclectic group of people I had ever seen at any gathering. Young and old, white and black, rich and poor, CEOs, custodians, politicians, liberals, conservatives, artists, old and new friends . .  these were Thelma's flowers. They came to thank God in their own way and to acknowledge that this was one whose love helped them to blossom.
Oscar

From Kitchen Stool to Sanctuary Pew

My family had been going to the Walnut Hills Baptist Church since I was a child. Oscar, many years my senior, had also been attending the church since he was a child. At one time his mother was the oldest living member of the church. Until I came back to the church as the pastor, I only remembered seeing Oscar one time. My one and only impression was not a good one. He was loud, rude, and obnoxious, someone you'd definitely try to avoid. His wife, Penny, was the complete opposite. She was one of the most positive, optimistic persons I had ever known. She was a manager of high-rise condominiums for the wealthy. Her ability to keep her positive attitude and maintain her sanity with the demands of her work and living with Oscar was truly a testament to her people skills and deep faith in God. She never took things personally. She could find something humorous in just about every situation, especially those dealing with her pampered and cantankerous residents.

When I came back from seminary and became pastor, Penny and Oscar would come each Sunday. Penny would attend Sunday school and the worship service; Oscar would sit downstairs in the kitchen and read the Sunday newspaper.

There was another dimension to Oscar's life that greatly contributed to his personality and behavior: Oscar was an alcoholic. It never stopped him from working or being a champion bowler. He was a functioning alcoholic, yet an alcoholic just the same. As a young pastor, I was uncomfortable around him, and yet I felt I needed to do something to replace his kitchen stool for a pew.

Many of my attempts crashed and burned. Finally, one day I said the magic word: fishing! We both loved to fish and finally had something in common to talk about. Not only did we talk, but we went fishing together. He had a friend who owned property with a creek running through it and a small livestock pond loaded with hand-sized blue gills. It was during those fishing trips, especially the hourand-a-half ride, that I got to know Oscar. Not as Oscar the obnoxious, but as a man who was intelligent and deeply concerned about others, a man who was actually kind and gentle. He had a wonderful, dry sense of humor, a big laugh, and later I discovered he was an excellent writer. First impressions are not always reliable. So often we don't take the time or the risk to get to know one another deeper than what we see on the surface.

One day, Oscar made his move. He left his kitchen stool for a seat in the very last pew of the sanctuary, next to the door in case he had to make a quick exit. For Oscar, this was a big move. His hard, gruff, and blustery outer shell merely disguised who he really was: a big teddy bear, sensitive and caring. With his head bowed, Oscar nervously flipped through the worship bulletin.

Then one day, it happened. Oscar called the church office and said he needed to see me immediately. I asked him if Penny was all right. "No, no, she's fine—it's about me," he said.

Thirty minutes later, he came into my study. He looked anxious. He sat down, leaned forward, and put his head in his hands. He took a deep breath and raised his head. Looking straight into my eyes, he said, "I want to give up drinking." He paused. "Tomorrow I'm going into a three-week program for people like me who want to get this monkey off our backs. I can't do this without your help. I'm entering uncharted waters and I am scared. Will you pray for me?"

"Certainly," I said.

Oscar leaned over, put his head on my shoulder, and wept. At first I was skeptical. I had seen so many addicts who, try as they might, could not kick the habit. I felt this could be different. Oscar just might do it.

Three weeks later to the very day, Oscar came to see me again. He had lost weight. He was calm and seemed to be at peace with himself and the world around him. He told me he had not had a drink for twenty-one days. He put his head on my shoulder, just as before, and this time we both wept. I knew that Oscar had truly freed himself from a lifetime of addiction and would never drink another drop, which he never did. We prayed.

Our fishing trips continued and became more numerous. We talked about our lives and what our faith meant to us. Oscar had a deep faith in God, but hated the hypocrisy that so often raises its ugly head in the church. We also shared his World War II experience, a subject he was reluctant to talk about. He had seen and experienced many horrible things. His only vice now, he'd say, was his pipe, which he was constantly cleaning and filling with tobacco.

Oscar wanted his sobriety to have meaning beyond just himself. He felt deeply for those still struggling with addiction. He came up with the idea of creating an organization to educate people on how to help loved ones and friends break the chains of addiction. At that time, such organizations were not as numerous as they are today, and few, if any, were church based. He envisioned churches throughout the city hosting conferences, seminars, and support groups. The name he gave to the program was Alcohol Drug And Prevention Training (ADAPT). He wrote most of the curriculum, which included a moving, illustrated short story that spoke about the lifelong battle one must fight to maintain his or her sobriety.

To our delight, the first ADAPT meeting was well attended. Alcoholism was beginning to be recognized as a disease and treated as such. I thought how he was now trying to save the lives of those who were living as he once lived. He wasn't saying, "Look who I am," but "Look at what I have done—if I can do it, so can you." Undoubtedly, because of ADAPT, some did.

On one of our fishing trips, I was fishing downstream from Oscar. It was a beautiful sunny day. The water sparkled as it rushed by. I looked at Oscar just as he had cast his line, bait and all, into a low-hanging tree. He gave it a pull, but no luck. He looked at me and just shook his head. I watched as he made one attempt after another to free his line. I thought of how Oscar's life was once like his line, hopelessly entangled in alcohol, and how he was able to pull his life free and help others free themselves.

Oscar gave one last pull on his line. The limb gave up his line. Oscar yelled, "Hey, I'm free."

I gave two thumbs up, smiled, and thought, "You certainly are!"
Charles, Bert, and Bill

Welcome, Pardon, Cleanse, Relieve

Albert Einstein was wrong. There is something in the universe that travels faster than the speed of light, and that is news in the church! I had only learned about it Saturday afternoon . .  come Sunday morning everybody had heard about it, and they were all there for the morning worship. Attendance-wise, it was an Easter turnout. Some came out of curiosity, most came hoping for healing and closure. Uncharacteristic of our church, the people had formed their opinions. We were divided into several groups like the Corinthian church in the New Testament. The first group felt betrayed and was bitter. Another group was less judgmental, but felt it reflected poorly on the church and something needed to be done regarding the position he held. The final group expressed the sentiment of most of the members: a repentant prodigal son was coming home and this should be a time of rejoicing. I took a deep breath and entered the sanctuary, taking my seat behind the pulpit. It was a typical hot and humid

August Sunday in Cincinnati. The people sat quietly, fanning themselves with anything they could find. The whirling blades of the two large fans positioned at the back of the sanctuary (while giving the illusion of cooling down the room) did little for our 130-year-old sanctuary but make conversation with a person next to you almost impossible. On this day, no one seemed much in the mood for conversation.

I remember very little about the service. I don't recall the hymns we sang or the title or text of my message. I can only remember what happened after I gave the altar call as we all stood to sing the closing hymn, "Just as I Am."

In our faith tradition, at the closing of the worship service, the minister always extends an invitation known as the altar call. Anyone who wished to join the church or receive Jesus as his or her Lord and Savior was requested to come forward during the closing hymn. No sooner had I given the altar call than Bill got up from his seat and started a very slow but deliberate walk down the center aisle. With his back toward the congregation, facing the cross over the baptistry, he stopped, buried his head in his large, rough hands, and wept bitterly. Bill had told me the day before that he was going to do this. This was the news that somehow got out and moved lightning-fast through the congregation. This is why everyone was there. I went down the chancel steps to console him when I noticed another, then another, coming forward. Charles and Bert came forward and stood, shoulder-to-shoulder, on either side of Bill. Bill kept crying. With tear-filled eyes, Bert and Charles sang with the congregation the last verse:

"Just as I am, thou will receive, Wilt welcome, pardon, cleanse, relieve. Because Thy promise I believe O, Lamb of God I come, I come."

There assembled before me were three men who were as different as three men could be. Charles was a middle-aged African American, Bill a retirement-aged southerner, and Bert a ninety-year-old former businessman. Standing there, I thought of each of these men and what brought them and us to this place at precisely this time.

"WE HAD NOT EATEN THE ENTIRE DAY," CHARLES WOULD begin his story. "No one said a word." He would go on to say that their mother kept busy darning socks and sewing patches over patches on the clothes of her four children. They lived in a cold,drafty apartment in the West End.The Great Depression made it hard on everyone, especially this African American family. Finally, the silence was broken when Charles's younger brother went over to his mother.

"Mommy, I'm hungry, when are we gonna eat? My belly hurts me," he cried.

At first the mother sat motionless. Taking a deep breath, she wiped away the tears streaming down her face. "Come here, child," she said, pulling Charles's little brother into her arms. She motioned for all of the children to come to her. Holding them tightly she said, "Don't worry, my babies, God will find a way. We just need to keep faith in Him. He will never leave us! Close your eyes, and we'll ask Him for some food to eat."

Charles listened to his mother speak to God like she was talking to a close friend. At one time, she prayed with such conviction, thanking God for the food already on the table. Years later, Charles said that he raised his head to see if indeed food was on the table.As soon as his mother had said amen, there was a loud knock on the door. They raised their heads and looked at their mother. She motioned for Charles to see who it was. He slowly opened the door. There was no one there. He looked up and down the hallway, but again, no one. Turning to come back into the apartment, he saw an envelope on the floor. He picked it up and ran to his mother. With eyes as big as saucers, the children watched as their mother opened the mysterious envelope. Clutching the envelope and its contents next to her breast, she raised her head. "Praise Jesus! Oh, praise Jesus!" she kept shouting. No name, no message, no address, just a plain envelope and a ten-dollar bill. She motioned for her children to gather around. She thanked God for hearing her prayers and giving them this "manna" from heaven, the very manna God gave to the children of Israel in the wilderness.

Years later, Charles and his brother and sisters talked about that day. They all had ideas about who left the money.

All admitted, however, that the timing was incredible. Charles simply believed that God was the one who remembered them that cold winter day. That one incident had a great impact on his life. That little boy would eventually become the Reverend Dr. Charles, an apostle of Jesus Christ.

For an African American living during the Depression, Charles's educational accomplishments were incredible. He proudly shared that he attended Harriet Beecher Stowe Elementary and Junior High and was a graduate of Sally J. McCall (Industrial Colored Institute). He later attended Tri State College, receiving his BA in Medical Technology; Salmon P. Chase College; Poro Beauty School, where he would return to teach and become the dean; Bruno's Advanced Academy of Hair Design; Juliet Conservatory of Music; Temple Bible College; Cincinnati Bible College; and Wayne State Theological Seminary, where he received his doctorate.

Charles was fastidious about his appearance and was an immaculate dresser. His shoes were always shined, his suits neatly pressed. His hair was jet black with a little graying at his temples. He was obsessed with cleanliness. When he'd eat out at some restaurant or banquet, he would always wipe his utensils with his napkins and inspect his plate. He had a round face, a large girth, and was always smiling. He wore a large, metal cross around his neck and a clerical collar. Physically he was not imposing, yet his personage commanded and received respect.

Charles joined the staff of the church as part-time community minister in the mid-1970s. We were trying to have a greater ministry in the community, and Charles was called to help us minister more effectively. Our community was 75 percent African American. We decided to concentrate on the old Alms Hotel, which was now the Alms Apartments, low-income subsidized housing. After receiving permission from management, we went door to door, introducing ourselves and asking what was the greatest need in the apartment building. Without exception, the number one answer was safety. We began various activities to bring the people together and build a sense of community. We started a Thursday morning Bible study and fellowship time (the one Irene played for). Charles was living with his mother, who was totally blind. When she died, Charles moved into the Alms. His presence transformed the apartment building. Crime became almost nonexistent. The people now would stop to visit one another in the large entryway. People invited their neighbors over for desserts and games.

Through all the smiles and laughter, Charles was well acquainted with pain and sorrow. Charles had many health issues: diabetes, arthritis, a faulty heart valve, teeth that all had to be extracted after he developed an infection, poor circulation, swollen ankles, eye problems. Some nights he'd be in such pain he would roll around on his apartment floor crying out to Jesus to help him. He had a limited income to live on and gave most of that away to those who were in greater need. Consequently, he did not take care of himself medically. No matter the suffering he endured, the hardships he went through, the road blocks unfairly placed before him, he remained a man of great faith: the Reverend Dr. Charles, an apostle of God.

WHEN I CAME INTO THIS WORLD, BERT WAS NEARING retirement. When I was turning forty, Bert left this world at the age of ninety-six. We were the best of friends. He was my spiritual mentor.

In the New Testament, we read about a man named Barnabas. The name means, "son of encouragement." He took the apostle Paul under his protection and care when most didn't believe this persecutor of the Church and his so-called dramatic conversion experience on the way to the ancient city of Damascus. It was also Barnabas who gave a young man named John Mark another chance to go back into the mission field after he got cold feet and came back home on a previous trip. If it was not for the encouragement of Barnabas, we would not have Paul (the apostle to the Gentiles) nor John Mark (who became a leader of the Church and author of the Gospel of Mark). Bert was truly a Barnabas. He was always encouraging others in his quiet, modest way.

Bert was tall and thin and always wore a tie. His thick hair was completely white, parted down the middle. He was soft spoken, quiet, caring, and polite; a real gentleman. He loved God and expressed that love in many tangible ways: a pat on the back, visiting someone in the hospital, or visiting a shut-in who was often many years his junior. In a myriad of ways, Bert was Christ-like, a person who was as close to spiritual perfection as any person I have known.

In his later years, he moved from superintendent to resident of the Baptist Home and Center, a retirement and nursing care facility which was originally a place for indigent and elderly Baptists. Despite his age, Bert had a little makeshift office on the second floor of the main building. He'd be at his desk five days a week up until the last few weeks of his life.

Even after I was called to another church, we stayed in close contact. He would send me little notes of encouragement. We'd also talk on the phone. Every time I'd visit the home to see parishioners or attend board meetings, I'd stop by to see Bert. I did this not out of a sense of obligation, but as something I looked forward to doing. Standing at the door to his little one-room-with-bath apartment, I felt like I needed to take off my shoes like Moses did because I was about to walk on holy ground. Bert would always greet me with that kindly smile and bright eyes that sparkled and the words, "Why it's my good friend, Wendell. I am so glad you came!"

We would first talk about worldly events, the church, and always about my wife, Mickey, and our three children. In the late 1970s, we took a month-long family vacation to see relatives in Louisiana and Texas. Our children were quite small. The day before we left in the no-cell-phone era, Bert purchased and dropped off a CB radio, just in case we'd need it. And we did. The car's engine ran hot the entire trip, and in a remote part of Texas the radiator said it wasn't going any further. Within a few moments, a truck responded to our pleas for help and directed us to a nearby garage. Without that CB, I don't know what we would have done.

As I look back on our visits to his room, we never talked much about Bert. He was never quick to give an opinion or do much of the talking. Within fifteen or twenty minutes of our visit, words were no longer needed. It was this time that I looked forward to the most. I felt like I was being blessed by merely being in his presence. We were conversing at a much deeper level than speaking allowed. I felt the grace of God, that unmerited love. I didn't have to pretend to be who I was not. I didn't have to impress or please anyone. I felt totally accepted for being just me. I could be vulnerable and yet safe, a sinner and yet forgiven, troubled yet totally immersed in the peace of God. It was such times many long for—such times that often elude us in the noisy, fast-paced lives we live.

BILL WAS AN INSTANT HIT WITH THE CHURCH. SOON AFTER visiting our worship service, he joined our adult Sunday school class. Fellow class members told me how impressed they were with his knowledge of the Bible. He could quote chapter and verse, and he did so with a deep voice and a thick southern accent. As pastor and shepherd of the flock, I was always cautious regarding the intentions of someone who made a big splash and began to have a following. Even today, many people are looking for someone to follow, someone who has all the answers, someone who does not see grey, but only black and white—a kind of a savior who will make all of their troubles go away. People can be easily fooled and quite gullible. I have to admit that after a few conversations and a visit to his home, I, too, felt Bill was the real deal. No, not a savior, but rather a simple man who certainly had his share of hardships and blemishes. Yet in spite of a difficult life, which had aged him prematurely, he held on to his faith in his "sweet Jesus," as he'd say.

Bill was the caretaker of one of the old Victorian mansions in a section of the neighborhood once called Millionaire Row. In the backyard of one of these mansions, children unearthed a grave marker for a cat that was owned by the Taft family, quite possibly a relative of our twenty-seventh president, William Howard Taft. Next door to where Bill lived was a hiding place for runaway African American slaves. It was an important stop for those traveling the Underground Railroad. A retired physician owned Bill's house. The doctor and his wife took extended trips. Bill's main job was taking care of the yard, doing minor repairs, and looking after the house when the owners were away. Bill and his wife, Lucy, lived in what was once referred to as the servants' quarters.

Lucy was diagnosed with cancer, but had been in remission for several years. Her battle with cancer had taken its toll on her. It had left its mark on her body and appearance. She looked many years Bill's senior, yet they both were in their late sixties. I'll never forget my first visit. She came into the room while Bill and I were talking. Such a wisp of a woman, she smiled politely as she used the door frame and furniture to steady her journey. Bill jumped up and took her by the arm and helped her sit down on a large over-stuffed chair. He treated her like royalty.

Over the months, Bill had shown himself to be a man with no guile. His faith was loving, not judgmental. He was definitely a friend of sinners and was always willing to pray for anyone in need. Bill had an active prayer life and would often be called upon during Sunday school and Bible study meetings to lead in prayer. His prayers were simple and comforting. He quoted the Bible not to impress, but because it was a natural part of his vocabulary. Within a year, he became a deacon of the church. He was a wonderful addition to the church and to the deacon board. I was still concerned, however, with a few church members who wanted to canonize him. Bill's humble spirit never encouraged anyone to entertain such a notion.

The arrival of spring brought with it devastating news to Bill and Lucy. The cancer had returned; treatment was not recommended. The concern now was pain management.

One day, I found Bill in his backyard. He stood motionless, looking down at the panoramic view of the Ohio River snaking its way through the Miami Valley. When he turned toward me, his eyes were bloodshot and swollen. He forced a smile and greeted me with his normal southern hospitality and charm.

"How are you doing, Bill?" I asked. He turned his face away from me.

"We are just gonna have to put this in God's hands," he replied slowly, "like before."

"Before?" I questioned.

"Pastor, my first wife—she died of cancer," he answered. "Hers was a long and painful death, a very nasty cancer. I wasn't crying for her," he continued, "not even her dying, because her pain is over and I know she's in a far better place.

"No," he paused and took a deep breath, "it was the loneliness, pastor, the god-awful loneliness. Life goes on, as they say, for everyone but the loved ones left behind." He paused. "There's no getting over it; just living through it— you kind of resent life going on as if nothing happened. The whole world should come to a stop. But it doesn't, and we live days of walking in a muddy old swamp, surrounded by a fog so thick you can't see anything."

On a pleasant, breezy June day just a few months after the cancer reappeared, we gathered as a church family and laid Lucy to her eternal rest.

We stayed in contact with Bill and encouraged him to stay active, which he did. He continued to attend the adult Sunday school and the prayer breakfasts. One day, there was no Bill. Bert, who had been such a source of comfort to Bill, noticed he was absent and asked me if he could do anything. "First we have to find him," I told Bert. I asked Charles to go with me.

Bill did not answer our loud and persistent knocking on his door. We looked through the windows. Our calls went unanswered. Going to our car, we saw two people getting out of theirs. Their arms were loaded with groceries. We asked them if they knew Bill. A boy in his late teens said with interest that he did. His mother rolled her eyes. We introduced ourselves and asked if they knew where he was. At that point, the woman went into a tirade about Bill. Words she used were "phony, liar, drunkard, hypocrite." Apparently, her son and Bill had become quite close. Bill was having a positive impact on the young man. The mother was delighted that there was a strong, well-grounded male role model in her son's life. Well, that all came to an end when Bill went on a week-long drinking binge. He came to their door drunk. When the mother told him to leave, he used profanity. Leaving, he fell and hit his head. He slept in the yard for hours and then got up and staggered off. They hadn't seen him since.

I asked if they knew that he had lost his wife. No, they didn't know that; they knew she was not very healthy. "He hadn't said a word," the boy said. "He seemed bothered . .  sad. He spent a lot of time standing in the back looking down at the river." I told them that I was not condoning what he did, especially for the boy to see and hear, but a little compassion might be in order. The mother said she was sorry his wife died and could see how this affected his behavior, but that was it. To her, what he did was beyond her immediate forgiveness and his fall from grace was almost unredeemable because he could never take back the things he did to her son.

We found Bill that evening. The police had picked him up and took him to a nearby emergency room. We learned that he got in a minor altercation at some bar. When we walked in to see him, he was shirtless and sitting on the side of the bed. He was bruised and bandaged. He looked up at us and then lowered his head and started crying, all the time saying how he had let down the church and his "sweet Jesus." I have seen few people who were as broken in spirit as was Bill. He had never been intoxicated before. He never had as much as a beer in his entire life. When he fell, he fell hard.

Charles and I helped him get dressed, stopped and got his prescriptions filled, and took him home. When I visited him later in the week, he said that he needed to confess his sins before the entire congregation. I asked if he felt that was necessary. I told him that he didn't need a public forum in order to receive forgiveness. Forgiveness can be accomplished privately with God. I told him that he had self-medicated with the alcohol, which was misfortunate, but it was not as if he broke one of the Ten Commandments. He could see what alcohol did to him and he should never drink again. He had God's forgiveness, and in time, he needed to reconcile with the boy and his mother. He said his sins were so egregious and had let down so many people he needed to do this publicly. Knowing that those who placed a lot of faith in Bill felt deceived, I didn't want to bring any more pain on this man—this grieving, vulnerable human being. The final decision, however, was his.

The day came. There they were. All through the hymn, Charles raised his hands and shouted, "Yes, Lord! Hallelujah." Bill wept and Bert stood silent. I knew why Charles came forward. I had him on standby if Bill came forward. But Bert? I leaned over and asked Bert if he too had come to support Bill. He said, "I have come to ask forgiveness for my sins!" While the apostle Paul says that we are all sinners and fall short of the glory of God, Bert could certainly not be the person Paul had in mind when he penned those words. Bert was the most saintly person in the congregation. Why did Bert come forward? As a reminder.

Bert was reminding us that we are all merely beggars helping one another find a morsel to eat. If Bert was truly in need of confessing his sins, could we do otherwise? It was not for us to judge or grant forgiveness. That was God's role in all of this. We were merely the "welcoming home committee." It was not that there were no consequences—Bill would have to live with them. But, who among us did not live daily with consequences of past behavior or actions?

Those most offended by Bill's actions were humbled as we all stood together before the throne of grace, sinners we all. Watching the lovefest that spontaneously broke out after the service, I thought how Bert was shielding a fellow sinner by doing what Jesus did when He stopped the stoning of the woman caught in the act of adultery with the words, "Let he among you without sin cast the first stone!" (John 8:7 RSV).

Bill stayed with us until winter. He made peace with his neighbors. The mother still had her misgivings and remained guarded. The doctor sold the mansion, and Bill decided it was time to move on. Did he find the companionship he needed and become a wounded healer, that is, did he reach out to those grieving the loss of a loved one? I think he did. I see flowers growing along the side of the road.

AFTER LEAVING THE CHURCH IN 1980, I MANAGED TO STAY in touch with both Charles and Bert. Charles's many health-related ailments finally caught up with him. I knew he was admitted to Drake Hospital and that he was ill. I did not know he was deathly ill. I delayed seeing him and missed the opportunity to say a final good-bye. I have always regretted that missed opportunity. They say that to his last day from his bed, he preached the Good News of Jesus to his fellow patients, and with his last breath praised God.

The last time I saw Bert was on a Monday evening. I was on the board of directors of the Baptist Home and stopped by to see Bert before our monthly meeting. Bert was suffering from, among other age-related illnesses, Transient Ischemic Attacks (TIA), commonly known as mini-strokes. Bert had to give up his apartment and his little office. He was ninety-six years old. As always, I was greeted with a warm smile and his familiar greeting, albeit slurred, "Well, isn't it my good friend, Wendell!"

I sat beside his bed and we talked of many things. After we prayed together, we had our quiet time. He was so weak and frail. The sparkle was all but gone from his eyes. His one arm was still, his face slightly twisted. While his body was yielding to the inevitable, his spirit still soared like an eagle. During our quiet time, he imparted to me the wisdom and strength of one who had fought the good fight and was now ending the race. We both knew he was approaching the end of his earthly journey. Yet, lying there was someone who knew without a doubt that his journey was just beginning. It was difficult for both of us to let go.

"Well, I better get to my meeting," I said.

"Oh, they can't start the meeting without my good friend Wendell."

We both laughed.

"Don't worry about me," he said reassuringly. "I'll be up and around in no time."

"We'll go for a nice, long walk," I replied.

Bert died a few days later.

Charles was called to be an apostle of Jesus Christ, and Bert was called to be a Barnabas, one who encourages. Wherever life took them, whatever path they traveled, countless lives were touched and beautiful flowers grew.
Carl and Ed

The Little Flowers

In the 1960s, the church was going through some rather lean financial times. Those who were a part of the flight to the suburbs took with them not only their membership, but also their money. By the 1970s, only one-fourth of the congregation still lived in the neighborhood. Some who moved continued to come back to the inner-city church, most did not. The ones who did had a difficult time making up the financial shortfall. If the inner-city church was to survive, it needed both members and financial support. Desperately needing income, the church in the late 1960s sold an adjacent parking lot for five thousand dollars. In 20/20 hindsight, this was a transaction the church would always regret. Those now commuting from the suburbs needed a safe place to park their cars. Selling the lot took away about twenty parking places. A research firm purchased both the lot and the three story house on the southwest corner of the lot. Shortly after the transaction, the company asked if they could rent the empty classrooms in the basement of our church building. The classrooms were sitting empty, and the church could use the funds. The church said yes.

Two years later, the company moved into bigger accommodations and sold the lot and building to a residential care facility for the mentally challenged. Gradually, the residents began attending our Sunday worship services. This was a challenge. They'd yell out and get up and roam around the sanctuary during the service. Regardless of the interruptions, we saw this as a ministry. We talked with their caregivers and asked for help in how best to deal with their erratic behavior. I was proud of the congregation. Sadly, they were not welcomed by other churches.

One day, I received a phone call from the director of a Montessori school located in the city's East End. The school needed to relocate and wondered if we had any space to rent. Two days later, Nancy and her husband, Ed, who were the founders and directors of the school, and two parents came to see us. We showed them the classrooms. They said, "Where do we sign?" The members of the church felt that income alone was the reason we rented to a business. Now our new renters were doing real ministry. It was a perfect fit. We appreciated that the school had a strong governing board of committed parents. We also were pleased with their enrollment policy: one-third of the students paid full tuition, one-third paid half tuition, and one-third received a full scholarship! What each student paid was based on the income of the families. It was important that there be a socioeconomic and racial diversity to the school.

Ed was a tall, lean man and an avid bicyclist. He was intelligent and cared deeply for children and the environment. Ed was soft-spoken, yet stood firm on his convictions. He was gentle and a good listener. Ed would not consider himself a religious person, nor would he ever attend church. However, he was a deeply spiritual man who pondered the universe and his place in it.

When the "save the world, make a difference, get involved" days of the 1960s ended, the parents of the later students did not have the commitment or passion their predecessors did. Drastic cuts had to be made to keep the school open. Nancy and Ed's sacrifice was considerable and was the reason the school has yet to shut its doors.

One terrible day, Mitch, their nineteen-year-old son, died suddenly. He was a handsome, young man who played high-school varsity baseball, basketball, and soccer, and was the winner of several awards. He was attending the University of Cincinnati. Just a few hours before he died, he and his sister were fussing with one another over the bathroom. Thinking that he was coming down with a cold, he decided to stay home. Later that day, Ed came home to check on Mitch. He found him still in bed as if he were sleeping. The medical examiner concluded that Mitch had contracted a rare but deadly bacterium that took his life while he slept. I will never forget the sadness that filled their home that night when I visited them. Such a beautiful young man with so much potential. His life was taken by something only visible with a microscope.

When family and friends gathered to say farewell, I began by saying, "We do not remember Mitch as a saint.

He would quarrel with his sisters, give mom and dad the usual teenage worries, perhaps drive the car too fast, ride his bicycle without his helmet. We remember a young man who had many special qualities, who lived with conviction, intensity, and with promise." Then I read one of the poems Mitch had written:

Driftwood.

Out on the rolling sea.

Thousands of thousands of waves

crashing onto the shore.

One after another

riding high and free.

As it hit the beach

pushed into a tidepool

its companion slowly recedes.

Back to the sea.

Waiting for that one wave

to pick it up once again

and carry it to a distant shore.

~Mitch

CARL, AFFECTIONATELY CALLED "SWEET PEA" BY HIS FAMILY and many friends, was a beautiful human being. He was loved and respected by all who knew him. Soaking wet, Carl weighed no more than one hundred twenty-five pounds and stood perhaps five feet, eight inches tall. Small in stature, he was tall in the things that determine a person's size—integrity, honesty, trustworthiness, a strong work ethic, and a deep compassion for others. As an African American growing up during the 1930s and 1940s, he knew the hurt and sting of prejudice, yet it did not make him bitter or cause him to judge others because of what certain people did to him. I was privileged to know Carl, call him friend, and work with him. He was the church custodian.

Carl developed a special relationship with the children in the Montessori school. He was always waving at them, smiling, and saying hello. He'd often help the children get safely into their parents' waiting cars. Regardless of the holiday, he'd give them a little gift—a valentine card, a candy cane at Christmas, a little treat at Halloween. I can see the children jumping up and down holding their little gift saying, "Thank you, Mr. Carl." Carl lived on a fixed income and a small salary from the church. Carl received a much-deserved reputation for his cleanliness. He was always nicely dressed and kept the church building and the area around the church building free of any trash or litter. Each Sunday he'd wear a tailored three-piece suit and greet me after the services, "Beautiful sermon, Reverend Mettey. I do like your tie!" Carl worked in the dry cleaning business for more than four decades.

When he developed throat and mouth cancer, it was attributable to all of the chemicals he worked around for all of those years.

The church lost more than a custodian when Carl died. The church truly lost a friend and someone who loved the church family and the building in which we gathered on Sundays. It was a sad day in that 125-year-old sanctuary when we gathered to say good-bye to Carl. He had taken such good care of that lovely, old church building and especially the sanctuary.

For Baptists, the design and appointments of the sanctuary were progressive. While Baptists had established numerous schools and colleges, they were cautious about intellectualizing the faith. It was a time when Bible scholars were taking a critical approach to interpreting the Scriptures. One well-known scholar of the day said that Jesus did not divide the little boy's lunch of a few fish and loaves of bread to feed the multitude, but that the people were so moved that the little boy would share his lunch, they in turn began to share their lunches with others who didn't bring any.

As a result, most Baptist sanctuaries had only a pulpit for preaching, not a lectern for teaching. In the Walnut Hills Baptist Church sanctuary, there were both. The organ, beautiful stained-glass windows, and inlaid wood throughout the sanctuary helped create a beautiful place to worship and a peaceful and quiet retreat from the noise of the city.

It was in this setting that the many friends and family members of Carl met to say farewell. One by one, people came up to the pulpit or lectern, whichever they preferred, to eulogize Carl. His family members shared with the church family many interesting things about Carl. We all confessed that Carl had his share of cracks and blemishes, like the rest of us. He was not perfect, but in spite of it all, Carl was remembered as beautiful, lovely Sweet Pea.

Ed decided to bring the children up to attend a portion of the service. He told them that Carl had gone away and would never come back again. He said everyone in the sanctuary, a place Ed would bring the children for quiet time on occasion, was meeting to talk about Carl. They quietly sat on the back pew. The service was anything but a somber time. It was a time of celebration, inspirational music, and humorous eulogies; sad, yes, but when you'd think of Carl you had to smile. The children were preschool age; they'd fidget, whisper to their friends, and finally you'd hear, "I have to go to the bathroom." After twenty minutes, Ed took the children back to their classrooms.

A few weeks later, I ran into Ed in front of the church building. He said he was going to contact me to tell me something about Carl's service, so he was glad he had met up with me. He asked me if I knew that the children attended a portion of the service. "Yes," I said, "I saw you sitting in the back and was thinking how well-mannered the children were and how brave you were for bringing them."

He then said that a couple of weeks after the funeral, he took the children up to the sanctuary for quiet time. Without a word from Ed, suddenly one of the children got up, walked slowly up the chancel steps, stood by the pulpit and said that Carl was a nice man who always gave him candy. He sat down and another child got up, went to the pulpit and said she missed Mr. Carl. Ed said that one by one, without any coaching, the rest of the children did as they saw the grown-ups do. This was now their time.

Nothing spoken at his funeral would have made Carl more pleased than the sweet, innocent words of these children who Carl loved and who loved him.

Carl was remembered by the little flowers he helped water.
Mary

The Tourist

Mary walked like a member of the royal family. Head raised, shoulders back, she swaggered down the center aisle of the sanctuary, acknowledging everyone with a very slight nod of her head. Her Mona Lisa smile made her appear as if she knew something we did not. Mary lived in a third-story apartment next to our church building. She was often seen walking the neighborhood like a tourist, stopping at each store, picking up and examining items she had seen many times before. She wore only bright, colorful dresses. She often displayed a new accessory she added to her wardrobe—a scarf, a belt, or a pair of new earrings. Mary was the mystery lady. While everyone knew her, no one knew much about her. She just appeared one day. She lived in her own little world, devoid of any meaningful dialogues or the possibility of any potential friendships, all because of a debilitating speech impediment. When she attempted to speak, people would just shrug their shoulders and walk away. When she did speak, her entire lower jaw would rapidly open and shut, repeating each word many times. At first, we were all uncomfortable speaking to her because of her facial contortions and the inability to respond meaningfully to what she was trying to tell us. By the sheer grace of God, I finally was able to understand her, but only after many failed attempts.

Mary seemed to have a greater income than the elderly who lived in our neighborhood, and she was generous with her money. She gave a nice offering each Sunday and would give when a special need came up in the church.

In time, I became fluent in "Mary language." I got to know her as a person who had a wonderful sense of humor and was opinionated, intelligent, educated, and did I say proud? She was a person who had taken it on the chin a number of times, yet still managed to keep her head up. She fit nicely into our diverse congregation.

One day, she came to see me with a folded-up piece of paper in her hand. It was a summons to appear in court. I asked her what it was all about. She said she didn't know. Later that day, I got in touch with her court-appointed attorney. The charges? Shoplifting. "Shoplifting!" I said in disbelief. I then realized how Mary was adding all those accessories to her wardrobe! What could possibly be her motive? She had more than enough money to live on.

"Loneliness," the attorney said. "The elderly shoplift for the attention. Some say it makes them feel not as lonely psychologically. Go figure."

I drove Mary to court the day of her trial. I asked her repeatedly if she understood what was taking place and if she did, in fact, shoplift. She didn't say a word; she just stared out of the car window.

The attorney and I requested a pretrial meeting with the judge in his chamber. We did not find him to be very sympathetic. "Don't think I won't throw a seventy or eighty year old in jail," he barked. "This shoplifting business has to stop." After he got that out of his system, he said if Mary would plead guilty, stay out of the stores, and pay court costs, he'd put her on a two-year probation. Next time, she'd go to jail. So Mary stood before the judge, received a lecture, pled guilty by shaking her head, and received her sentence.

On the way home, I asked if she understood what happened and that she could never go in those stores again. She looked over at me and nodded. What she did understand was that her world had become a whole lot smaller. I told her story to a few discreet members of the church and asked them if they'd help me with Mary. They encouraged her to continue coming on Sundays. She joined a Sunday school class and the class members always made sure she attended church activities. After her day in court, she didn't seem to have that Mona Lisa smile any longer. She only shopped at the grocery store and took long walks in the park. As quickly as she appeared, she disappeared.

I went to her apartment building and knocked on her door. A faint voice asked who I was. I told her and said I was concerned about Mary. The door next to Mary's door opened and there stood a woman using a walker. She told me that Mary had moved out. She liked Mary and was sad she moved away. When I turned to leave, she asked me if I would like to come in. Her only contact with the outside world was through her apartment window. She had seen me many times coming and going to and from the church building.

We had a delightful visit. I asked her if she'd like for me to pray. "Would you?" she asked. I reached out and took her hands and prayed. When we finished, she squeezed my hands. "You know, shut up in this room so, the way my legs are, you know, you are the first person I have touched for a very long time. Thank you!"

Dusty roads. Lonely people. Fellow travelers. We are all searching for the side of the road where the flowers grow.
Beulah

Got Me a Church and a Big, Yellow Bus

Surprisingly, her name does appear in the Bible. It is mentioned only one time, however, and only in the King James Version of the Bible. Its literal translation means "married." John Bunyan, writer of the Christian classic The Pilgrim's Progress, makes it synonymous with the Promised Land. Edgar Page Stites first put the name to music in 1875; another rendition was written by C. Austin Miles in 1911. Finally, prolific songwriter Squire Parsons turned it into a hit song in 1981, "Beulah." The prophet Isaiah made reference to the name when he gave a pep talk to the Israelites who were returning to Jerusalem from their Persian captivity. Their spirits were broken, their future looked bleak; this was truly the lowest time of their lives. Isaiah proclaimed to this community of survivors that a new day was come.

Thou shall be no more forsaken, neither shall thy land any more be determined Desolate. But thy shall be called HEPHZIBAH, "my delight is in her," and thy land BEULAH, for the Lord delighteth in thee and thy land shall be married. (Isa. 62:4 KJV)

I remember the first time I saw Beulah. It was just like yesterday. Little did I know then that God would use this unlikely messenger to proclaim the words of Isaiah, letting all of us know there's a new day come.

When I returned to the church after seminary in 1972, it was but a remnant of its former self. Church membership and attendance were a fraction of what they were just fifteen or twenty years before. Of greatest concern was our deficit spending. The cost of running the church was simply greater than the donations of a dwindling and aging congregation. Soon, all our savings would be depleted and another round of drastic cuts was inevitable. It was a low time for the church.

There were still vestiges of the glory days hanging around. The most notable and first on the list to eliminate was paying our lead singers in the choir. We simply could not afford them and, besides, we wanted to take the church and music program in a different direction. The lead singers were all classically trained and had big, booming voices. They would not come to choir rehearsals, which irked the volunteers who did. Each Sunday, they'd dust off one of the dead composers, or as the congregation called them, the three B's—Bach, Beethoven, and Brahms—which we had heard over and over again. There was no doubt that it would create quite a vacuum if they left. They did. And it did!

Feelings got hurt, accusations were made, a long-standing practice was done away with. It was a painful departure, but not quite as painful as listening to our all-volunteer choir sing each Sunday. The psalmist says we are to "make a joyful noise unto the Lord" (100:1 RSV). Well, it was noise, but also joyful. What the choir lacked in rhythm, tone, and harmony, they made up for in enthusiasm. This was who we were. No frills, just a group of people trying to minister to God's people and attempting to live within our means.

One cold winter's day, a visitor came into the sanctuary and sat in the very back pew. After the service, he told me that his name was Mark. He seemed to enjoy the service, but then off he went, never to come again, I thought. Two weeks later, he did come back. This time he brought two friends: Harriet and Lee. The three of them fell in love with the congregation, and the congregation fell in love with them. And guess what? They all could sing. Harriet was an accomplished musician and a powerful soloist. She was a graduate of the Cincinnati Conservatory of Music and had toured abroad. Our music program went from painful to spectacular. I later discovered why Mark stopped in that day. He was on his way to another church. Thanks to the cold, blustery winter's day, he sought refuge in our church building and never left.

As a church, we made a decision to be more inclusive and intentional in reaching out to the African American community, who comprised roughly 80 percent of our neighborhood. We knew that just giving lip service was not going to get the job done. So we went door to door in our community and welcomed those who didn't have a church to worship with us. We also collected valuable information regarding the needs in the community. A big need of the elderly was transportation, especially during inclement weather.

We purchased a big, yellow school bus and started picking up folks on Sundays who lived in the large, rent-subsidized highrises. For the first couple of months, a compact car could have accommodated the few we were picking up. That brought forth criticism about the big, yellow, empty bus and gave its critics an opportunity to voice complaints about all the other changes we were making.

Not everyone in the church was convinced that all this change was necessary, or even a good thing. Some just wanted a comfortable pew to sit in and opposed anything that would threaten their comfort zone."Why did we have to change?" they'd ask. "Why all the fuss and attention given to the neighborhood people? Encourage them to come, but let them make the changes." Regardless of what the apostle Paul said, according to them, we couldn't be all things to all people. The bus kept on rolling, and within five months, half the bus was full.

Then one day she stepped off the bus. Her name was Beulah, an African American lady in her late seventies. She wore one of those pillbox hats with the funny, little net, a pair of white gloves, a large purse draped over one arm, and a brightly colored dress.

She kept saying, "I'm going to need some help getting off this old bus. These old legs aren't like they used to be."

She'd then laugh and flash that million-dollar smile. I could see that her ankles were swollen and her knees bulging. She suffered from rheumatoid arthritis, high blood pressure, and an enlarged heart. All the way from the bus to the pew, she kept shouting how happy she was "cause now I got me a church to praise the Lord and a big, yellow bus to get me here!"

She never missed a Sunday, even when her arthritis was acting up, which was about every Sunday. She sat in the back next to the center aisle so she could greet all the folks who passed her way. It was easy to fall in love with Beulah. She never spoke about or wore you down with her problems. She didn't complain or demand. She was every pastor's ideal parishioner. She came every Sunday, took part in all the church activities and was appreciative of the least little thing done for her. She was a giver, not a taker, and possessed that wonderful, contagious laugh. She was a wonderful ambassador of her church and her precious Lord.

Then one Sunday it happened.

We now had a young, talented organist, the choir had grown in numbers and quality, and under Harriet's leadership it was singing a variety of music. Lee, Harriet's husband (a beautiful, caring, optimistic human being), and Mark, a talented, generous, and incredible interior designer, were all three asked to become deacons of the church (which was a reflection on the leadership role all three were playing). On this particular Sunday, Harriet was going to sing "How Great Thou Art" just before I gave the morning message. As she began the second stanza, "When thro' the woods and forest glades I wander, and hear the birds sing sweetly in the trees . .  " I noticed a commotion in the back of the sanctuary in the vicinity of Beulah. I also detected a noise, a strange sound. I looked at Harriet and Harriet looked at me. By this time, the entire congregation was looking to see what in the world was going on. It sounded like a compressed air hose losing its air in sprits. I could barely make out the words, "Sweeeeet Jesussss, precious Lord." I leaned to one side of my seat to see around the pulpit. The strange hissing sound was emanating from Beulah, who was swaying side to side, her head bobbing up and down.

No one knew what to do. Was she all right? Was she having some kind of seizure? Looking to me to do something, I motioned to Harriet to keep singing, but louder. When she hit the refrain, "Then sings my soul, my Savior God to thee," Beulah erupted. I can assure you no one had heard or seen anything like this before in our worship service. When it was finally over, some shook their heads, most just sat quietly.

After the service, Beulah came up to me in the foyer. "Pastor. Oh, Pastor, you folks are gonna kick me out of your church." She went on, "Every time I hear that song sung the way Miss Harriet sings it, well, I can't help myself. The Spirit just grabs ahold of me!"

Young, inexperienced, trying to merge two distinct cultures, I needed advice. I went to Carl, who was the chairman of our board of deacons. Carl was highly respected in the church. He was a colonel in the army reserves and a librarian. Intelligent, dedicated, faithful, and caring, Carl was definitely one of my go-to people. He was a fan of the dead composers. I don't think his radio played anything but classical music. If anyone would have had the right to object to the new direction the music program was taking, it would have been Carl. But he didn't. He always put the good of the church first. I asked his thoughts on Beulah. He said she certainly brought a new dimension to the worship. To some, it was unnerving, but to most it was okay. We all had gotten to know and love Beulah as a person. This was a sincere expression of her worship."This is some of the adjusting we'll have to make in order to bring in the community," Carl said.

Several months later, Beulah made a physically painful walk down the center aisle and joined the church. Six other persons joined her. For a small, struggling inner-city church, this was a lot of people joining in one Sunday. The congregation erupted with applause and shouts of "Praise to the Lord" and "God bless you." Our worship services were never quiet after that day. Harriet didn't sing "How Great Thou Art" as frequently as before, but when she did, we joined Beulah with our shouts of praise.

Beulah became our missionary to her apartment building. She spent her days cutting out poetry and words of Scripture from old magazines and church bulletins. She'd take them with her and give them to troubled souls she'd meet. One time, I asked Beulah how she was able to keep from being bitter and negative about all of her ailments and difficult life. "Well, Reverend Mettey, I had a choice to make a long time ago. I could either choose to cry or I could choose to laugh!" She paused, "And guess what? I chose to laugh!"

Beulah took the little that the good Lord gave her and lavishly spent it on others. Her generosity was reckless.

She possessed a joy deep within. It took so little, like Harriet singing "How Great Thou Art," to burst forth into wondrous rhythmic movements and holy laughter. Weathered in years and worn down by life, wherever she went she left behind a pathway of flowers.

I wasn't there when they laid Beulah to rest. I'm not sure what was said, who said it, or of the music that was played. When I was notified of her death, I closed my eyes and heard a chorus of angels singing the words to "Sweet Beulah Land":

I'm kind of homesick for a country,

To which I've never been before.

No sad good-byes, will there be spoken,

For time won't matter, anymore.

I'm looking now across the river

Where my faith will end in sight.

There's just a few more days to labor,

Then I will take my heavenly flight.

Beulah Land, I'm longing for you,

And some day, on thee I'll stand.

There my home shall be eternal,

Beulah Land, sweet Beulah Land.

There my home shall be eternal,

Beulah Land, sweet Beulah Land.

Beulah Land, Beulah Land, Beulah

Land, sweet Beulah Land.

Copyright © 1979 Kingsmen Publishing/BMI.

All rights reserved. Used by permission.
Walter

All-Pro Human Being

It was a cloudy, hot Sunday morning. Mickey and I had been serving the church for five years. The church wasn't breaking any attendance records, and though our financial situation was improving, it was still a struggle to pay the bills and keep the doors open. The music had greatly improved, and we were beginning to attract visitors to our worship service. The big, yellow bus was still picking up folks. On this particular Sunday, we had just completed the opening hymn when I noticed a large, distinguished-looking man wearing a suit and tie slip into one of the empty back pews. He stood out like a pimple on a first date. Starved for new members, the church swarmed around him after the service. By the time Walter got to me, a rumor began to circulate. Walter shared the same name and physique of the all-pro defensive tackle that played football for the Cleveland Browns. That rumor was quickly squelched by Walter. He never played football, not even as a kid. Walter may not have been an all-pro football player, but we came to know that he was, most definitely, an all-pro human being.

Born in the Deep South, he came to Cincinnati with his parents when he was still very young. He distinguished himself as an airman in World War II and received an honorable discharge near the war's end. He married, but had no children. He retired in 1962 after a successful career with a large U.S. corporation.

Walter was simply a beautiful human being. Few have captured my respect and admiration as did Walter, and no one captured his undying love and devotion as did his wife, Bernice. As corny as it may sound, she was his Lady Guinevere and he, her Lancelot. He was her knight in shining armor, ready to protect her from all harm. He worshipped the ground she walked on. Theirs was truly a love story.

For reasons still unclear, Walter and Bernice attended a church every Sunday that required a commute of five hours. "Those were wonderful times, especially toward the end," he later remembered. "All the way to and from church, we spoke of happy times and relived a lifetime of wonderful memories." After thirty-two years of marital bliss, Bernice died. Walter was devastated. He became so despondent, his friends worried for his life.

Desperately trying to hold onto the beautiful life he and Bernice once shared, he faithfully continued to attend "their" church and visit her grave in a nearby cemetery. After the service one Sunday, the pastor pulled him aside. He told Walter how much the church loved him and looked forward to seeing his smiling face each Sunday. He then told Walter that the church was simply too far for him to drive each week. "It'll kill you," the pastor said. "You have to let go and get on with your life down in Cincinnati. You don't need to come this far to find Bernice. She'll always be in your heart! She'll be waiting for you."

Walter was African American and had penetrating hazel-colored eyes. He didn't shed his suit and tie until he had been with us for a while, and then only during the summer. He was from the old school which had taught him to wear his best clothes when going to church. Walter was a man's man, rugged, honorable, and strong; he was also a favorite with the women of the church who were won over by his charm and manners. He sported a broad grin and punctuated every conversation with humor, an infectious laugh, and a beaming smile. While a pastor should not have favorites, Walter quickly became one of mine.

As with so many of his generation, Walter received a limited amount of formal education. He did possess, however, a wisdom spawned from adversities. To me, Walter's life paralleled the life of Paul as revealed in these words: "We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed" (2 Cor. 4:8–9 RSV). As a pastor, I have seen how hard times can either twist people or shape them. The things Walter experienced did not twist him, but shaped him into the man he was. Walter, like so many people of color of his generation, was shamefully treated. Only at my request would he share with me such stories. What he endured when he came home from the war and the things he had to go through just to make a living were troubling to hear. While Walter would smile and say, "Ah, those days are long gone," it made me angry. I admired Walter and those in his generation who suffered much but did not become bitter. They were able to separate the actions of some and not condemn an entire race. Listening to Walter and the indignities he had endured, and to see the man he had become, I wanted a large serving of the wisdom he possessed.

Walter quickly became an integral part of the church. He was elected to be a deacon and appointed to chair the Building and Grounds Committee. The old church building could not have asked for a better friend. After he retired, he practically lived there. If he didn't know how to fix something, he knew someone who did. While the building greatly benefited from Walter's hard work, the true beneficiaries were the people of the church.

Walter was a people person. He genuinely liked people and cared for people "down on their luck" as he'd say. If he did not see someone in the Sunday worship, he'd call the person that afternoon. If someone needed and asked for his advice, he'd give it straightforward, but always with a kind spirit. Walter would simply have nothing to do with someone he thought was lazy. And he'd be vocal about it!

In those early years of my pastorate, I relied upon Walter for advice and counsel. Many years my senior, he always treated me with great respect. To people, he'd say Pastor Mettey, but in private he'd say Wendell. He was such a positive force in the church. He never missed Sunday service, always sitting directly behind Bert. What a dynamic duo!

Walter suffered from painful, crippling rheumatoid arthritis. He eventually had to resign from the board of deacons, never again to enter the church building he so lovingly cared for. One day, he was listed as a shut-in in the Sunday bulletin. Shut-in? Maybe a shut-in of the body, but not of the spirit. Each Monday and Friday he'd call the church office to get a list of the ill, shut-ins, and hospitalized. He then proceeded to call them, and in return they gave him others to call and pray for. Walter, so crippled with arthritis he had to use a walker just to walk across his room, called on people whose problems were often dwarfed in comparison to his. He was a source of encouragement and strength to us all.

On many occasions, I took communion to Walter. Often, a longtime neighbor and friend of Walter's would be there. I came to call him Mr. White out of respect, a five foot, six inch giant of a man. I have met only a few who were as humble and faithful as Mr. White. Each day, he'd check in to see if Walter needed anything. He would see if his church needed anything. He'd then go and stay with his wife, who was placed in the nursing home years before. Walter told me that Mr. White had not missed one day of being at her side, not one day. How blessed I was to be in the company of such men. Someone once said, "Witness every day and if necessary you may use words." These men didn't need words to witness. Their lives were living witnesses, worth a thousand sermons and all the degrees awarded by all the prestigious universities. When I shared communion with these two men, I felt as if I was in the Upper Room with the apostles. What beautiful and, like all of us, blemished men. They allowed God to use them to brighten the path of so many who walk the lonely and colorless road of life.

One of my last visits to Walter's turned into a five-day job. Walter's roof leaked. Repeated attempts to fix it failed. He needed a new roof, but didn't have the money. His house was paid off; he could refinance, but he didn't have the income to pay the higher mortgage payment. He would not even consider cutting his tithe to the church, nor would he accept any handouts. This isn't right, I thought when I'd sit with him in his home during a rain, listening to water leak into his house. Here is a man who so faithfully cared for God's house at great financial cost. Should not God's people fix his house? I called a few church members and within five days, we put a new roof on Walter's house. Walter sat in a lounge chair in the yard below, supervising the work. Mr. White brought over food and refreshments. The neighbors said they wished they belonged to such a church. Near the completion of the job, I thought, this is what the church is all about!

I left the church to devote my life to caring for the poorest of the poor through humanitarian relief work. Eight years after I left, Walter became a permanent resident of the Baptist Home and Center. He was completely bedridden the last year of his life. When spring flowers were in full bloom and warm days returned to Cincinnati, Walter died. After the funeral service, we placed Walter's flower-covered casket into the hearse. He would take that ride one more time to the church far away where, as the pastor said, Bernice was waiting for him. A few days before Walter died, he told a mutual friend, "Tell Wendell I'm thinking of him." Walter, I am always thinking of you.
Dr. Arthur E. Cowley

Large Shoes to Fill

He was the only pastor I had ever known. He dedicated me as an infant. When I was twelve, he baptized me. He buried my father and grandmother when I was fifteen, and six years later he officiated at my wedding with Mickey. I worked under his leadership as a part-time youth director while going to college, and later took his advice and went to seminary. Now, three months after I completed seminary and was serving the church as associate pastor, he lay dying. He had suffered a major heart attack; the prognosis was not good. His life was now measured in hours, not years. Sitting beside his hospital bed, watching him drift in and out of consciousness, I thought of the banquet the church held in recognition of his fifty years of being an ordained pastor. I remembered the part of the celebration he liked best was "This Is Your Life, Dr. Cowley," seen through the eyes of Charlie Brown (his favorite Peanuts character). Now, six years later, the sand in the hourglass was all but gone. What an extraordinary life. What a giant of a man.

He was born in military barracks at Newcastle-on-Tyne, England. His father was a color sergeant in the Durham Light Infantry. He was the youngest of six. As he grew older, his conviction to serve the Lord grew stronger. He often traveled weekends with two lay preachers, a butcher and a coal merchant, who conducted open-air revival meetings. At one of the meetings, the butcher said, "Now, Arthur, tell the people what the Lord has done for you," and he did. He preached his first sermon and quickly became known as Little Arthur, the boy preacher. Handbills carrying his likeness and the time and place where Little Arthur would preach were posted throughout London. The people were amazed by his maturity, delivery, and knowledge of the Bible. Many responded to the call to give their lives to Christ. Most went away praising God; only a few went away disappointed.

The people were impressed with what he said and how he said it; over time people would be impressed by who was saying it. This is the true measure of any preacher.

At the age of fifteen, he came to the United States. Overcoming many obstacles, the purpose of him coming to the U.S. was realized in 1927, when he was awarded a PhD in theology. In 1937, he came to the church where he'd serve as pastor until his death thirty-five years later.

In an article that appeared in the Cincinnati Enquirer, Dr. Cowley spoke of his conversion as a young child:

I couldn't have been more than ten years old. I was living in Newcastle-on-Tyne, England. My people were poor. I was the youngest in the family of six and the last one to receive the hand-me-downs of my older brothers.

Our family attended the Salvation Army. The leaders were simple, devoted people. One night a lay-leader, with his red jersey shirt, asked all who wanted "to come to Jesus" to come and kneel on an old wooden bench.

One of my partners was a sailor, weather-beaten and reeking with liquor and tobacco. A Salvation Army lassie knelt beside me and in simple words explained how a small boy could make his decision for Christ. I did what she said.

Did I, as a child, understand fully the meaning of conversion? Of course not.

College and seminary and grief and tragedy have put added meaning to this simple surrender. My ideas have changed considerably but my love for Christ has remained the motive force of my life and ministry. Looking back through the telescope of fifty years at the little boy kneeling there, I view it as one of the great shining hours of my life. Without it I would never have become a minister.

His early years with the church were troublesome for the nation and the church. The world was at war. Young men rushed to join the armed services. Three hundred and fifty Cincinnati doctors had signed up by autumn 1942. The need for scrap metal was in such high demand that a leading department store donated its ten-ton marquee and a popular theater donated its heating system to the city.

Fountain Square, the center of downtown Cincinnati, became a collection point, at times looking like a junkyard. People listened every day to their radio for the latest war news (or for a little escape they listened to Jack Benny, George Burns, and Gracie Allen). Silk stockings disappeared, gas was rationed, and service stars hung in windows.

During those trying times, Dr. Cowley stood alongside worried but proud parents as they said their good-byes to sons and daughters who went off to war, rejoiced with them when these sons and daughters came home, and mourned with those parents whose children would never come home.

He performed weddings, dedicated infants, buried the dead, comforted the bereaved, preached faithfully each Sunday, and provided leadership to the church and community during these turbulent years.

Dr. Cowley was brilliant. His command of the English language was superb and his sermons were spellbinding. He had a grand sense of humor and he enjoyed teasing people and telling stories. Electronic gadgets fascinated him. He was innovative and always open to new ideas and new ways of doing things. The Sunday after Walt Disney died, he had several children bring a wreath forward to begin the worship service. The observance was picked up by the national news.

Dr. Cowley could never be accused of being fashionable. He'd wear an untailored suit right off the rack. In the summer, he walked the streets of Walnut Hills visiting church members. He was a good shepherd of his flock. But, perhaps his most endearing quality was his absentmindedness. He was forever forgetting where he put things: keys, eyeglasses, and yes, his car!

One day, he went out to get in his car and it was gone. He called the police and the church treasurer to see if he could get a rental. Five days later, the church's custodian asked Dr. Cowley why his car was parked in the Methodist Church's parking lot. Five days before, he had attended a meeting there. When the meeting was over, the beautiful weather grabbed his attention and he walked back to the church. The search was off. Dr. Cowley found his "parked" car.

Dr. Cowley was no stranger to personal grief. During his thirty-five-year pastorate at the church, he married three women. Two preceded him in death; all three would die of cancer. In the last year of his life, he was beaten and robbed of forty-eight dollars by three teenagers. He said to the reporter covering the story, "It is just one price you have to pay for working in this area." He went on to say, "Violence is not just a theory when you are on the ground and three teenagers are jumping on you."

As with us all, Dr. Cowley had his blemishes. He could be difficult to work with. Things were different now that I was a paid staff member and not a volunteer. There was also the dynamic of our different stages of life. He was seventy-four and didn't want to give up all he loved doing; I was twenty-seven and eager to put to use all I learned at seminary. As a young man, it was difficult receiving harsh criticism from someone you have put up there next to the apostles.

The smallest cracks in those we put up on pedestals become large gaping holes when they are found out. Their imperfections are hard to see from afar, but when we get up close, we can't believe our eyes. While we are told time and time again that there was only one perfect man, Jesus Christ, we continually disregard that good advice and keep labeling people blemish free. Dr. Cowley was revered both in the church and community; he wore shoes three times my size and his canonization process began before he died.

Sitting in that hospital room, listening to him breathe his last, I wondered how I would ever measure up to this great man. He had his cracks and blemishes. I had experienced his quick temper, sharp criticism, and even pettiness, but they were nothing compared to mine: feelings of being inadequate and unworthy, feeling insecure, and lacking faith that God would get us through trying times.

Dr. Cowley died the following weekend. An era had come to an end. A man many relied upon was gone. Before he died, he called a trustee of the church to his bedside. He dictated his last message to the church he had loved. He expressed the desire for the church to call me to succeed him as pastor. Neither the church nor I could do otherwise. A week after his funeral, the church honored his request and called me to be their pastor. I accepted, cracks, blemishes, warts, and all.

During those early years I had a recurring dream. In my dream, whenever I would enter the pulpit to preach, Dr. Cowley would appear. He would take the pulpit and I'd sit down behind him. He would fade in, I'd fade out. I didn't need Joseph of the Old Testament to interpret these dreams. I simply didn't feel I measured up to this legend of a man. I felt inadequate. His shoes were too large and legacy was too intimidating.

Sometimes I'd wake up in a cold sweat. He was always there whether in the pulpit, in my study, or when counseling a parishioner. "When will this dream end?" I'd lament. Then one night it happened. Again in my dream I was preparing to enter the pulpit. Dr. Cowley stepped in front of me and I, as always, lowered my head in a subservient way, ready to sit down. Then Jean, the child whisperer, stood up in the congregation and began yelling that the congregation wanted to hear me. Dr. Cowley turned and looked at me for the longest time. He smiled, then vanished, never to enter my dreams again.

Those dreams weren't meant to make me feel inadequate, nor do I share them to besmirch the character of the man I loved. Those dreams were meant for me to confront my feelings. Dr. Cowley was passing on the mantle of leadership. It was my time now to water the flowers, as he had so faithfully done (cracks and all), for more than sixty-five years.
Zell and Douglas

Saved by a Fall, Loved by All

I inherited two part-time employees when I became pastor. One was Bob, our choir director, who for an entire year called me Warren. Each Sunday, after conducting the choir, he proceeded to sit down and take a forty-minute siesta. For months, the music committee and I labored over what to do with Bob. "If we let him go, he'll take his own life," cried a few of his rather dramatic supporters. "Besides, as a church we should not just toss people on the trash heap when we are through with them," they pleaded. "Let's save Bob. Let's redeem Bob." Young and inexperienced, I said, "Okay, let's give it a try." I moved Bob out of the choir loft and sat him across from me, so he'd be closer to the congregation. I moved the music around in the order of the service so Bob didn't have long stretches in between conducting the choir and leading the congregation, thinking this might keep him awake. I went out of my way to thank him and the choir for the lovely music. I patted Bob on the back so many times I came close to developing carpal tunnel syndrome. After several months, it was the same old Bob. He kept recycling the same old music and insisted a weeknight rehearsal was not necessary. A quick run-through before the Sunday service would suffice. And I was still Warren. After the Sunday he fell asleep and tumbled off his chair, hitting his head on the lectern and bringing the congregation to their feet, even his three remaining supporters agreed. Bob had to go!

He could not believe he was being "relieved of his position," as he called it. Ah, Shakespeare is correct, "Parting is such sweet sorrow." Three weeks later, I bumped into Bob. He didn't kill himself; he was hired by the Methodists. He said it was the best thing that could have happened. He had gotten into a rut with us. He was rejuvenated. He concluded our conversation with, "I hope you have a good day, WARREN!"

The other employee was our custodian, or better known as "Diamond Jim." He came to work in a three-piece suit. A long, gold chain attached to a pocket watch draped down his leg. He wore highly polished wing-tipped dress shoes, but the focal point of his wardrobe was a two-carat diamond tie tack.

Jim was short and stocky. He carried a hefty set of jowls and his hair was slicked back. He definitely was an Old Spice man. He walked with a noticeable, not necessarily fake, but exaggerated, limp. He loved to talk, especially about himself. He constantly talked about his days as a law enforcement officer. While chasing a bank robber on his police motorcycle, he was in a serious accident, which caused him to limp. The accident ended his law enforcement career. To back up his story, he could produce his badge, letters of accommodation, and newspaper clippings of the accident on the spot.

It got to the point that all Jim did was polish a linoleum hallway floor, a high traffic area of Sunday mornings. The people would say to Jim, "The hallway looks wonderful, you're doing a great job!" In fact, he was not doing a great job. He refused to replace burned-out light bulbs, take out the trash, vacuum any rug, straighten up the sanctuary after Sunday services, all the things custodians do. When the Building Committee sat down and went over his job description, he never came back.

We put out the word that we needed a custodian. We had several qualified persons who applied for the job. One particular person stood out from all the rest, even though he was not the best qualified. Quite the contrary, he didn't have a good work record. He had quite a few jobs over the years, but didn't stay at many of them very long. When we interviewed him, we could smell alcohol on his breath. He was, however, neatly dressed. Polite and likable, he stood around five foot, ten inches tall and was thin. He had dark skin, a kind face, and sad eyes. The whites of his eyes were tinted yellow and they were bloodshot. He had lived a hard life and alcohol was a contributing factor. He was asking us for another chance in a life which was certainly given more than its fair share. I cannot tell you why, but we hired him, misgivings and all. His name was Zell.

Zell didn't talk much and was eager to please. He did everything Jim would not. Zell was a gentle soul. He was kind and always willing to do whatever was asked of him. Every time I'd ask him to do something he'd say, "Yes 'um!" I told him he could call me Pastor, Reverend, or Wendell, but never "Yes 'um." He smiled and said, "Yes, Reverend."

All inner-city churches have a sign board mounted on the front of the church building. People walking by could read the title of the sermon, the times of worship and Sunday school, or some encouraging saying. Our sign board was changed each Monday morning. It was Zell's job to bring it in and take it out once the secretary made the changes. One day, one of our parishioners called and asked if we were speaking a foreign language. Apparently Zell dropped the sign, hurriedly picked up the letters scattered all over the sidewalk, and randomly placed them back on the board.

I asked Zell about this. It was no big deal, but I pressed it because I had my suspicions, which were confirmed— Zell could not read. He hung his head and asked me if I was going to fire him. He had absolutely no trust in anyone. He had lost other jobs for doing less. He was a man in his late fifties and could not read. I told him it was nothing to be ashamed of. He'd be surprised to know how many people can't read or don't read very well. I told him about my difficulties in reading and how, if I had passed by that sign board, it would have looked okay to me. He laughed. He also confessed that he had been drinking that day. I told him we'd stop the drinking and start the reading.

In such a short time, Zell became dearly loved by the congregation. He did have some relapses. One time, he reported to work so drunk I had to take him home. With the love and encouragement of the church, he stopped drinking. One Sunday, after all the people were seated in the sanctuary, Zell quietly came in and slipped into the back pew. I was so proud of the way the congregation opened their arms and hearts to Zell that day. Cracked and blemished, they loved and nurtured him and took away the shame and pain he had known for so many years.

A WOMAN IN HER THIRTIES BEGAN SHOWING UP ON SUNDAY with her daughter. The girl went into the Sunday school class taught by Mickey, and the mother joined our adult class taught by George, one of our most gifted teachers. The woman, Judy, and her daughter, Alice, lived within walking distance of the church building. Every time I'd talk with her, she seemed like she was on guard. She never attended any of our dinners, nor would she allow Alice to take part in any activities. She definitely was hiding something. I asked Thelma, who lived next to Judy, what was going on. "Oh," Thelma said, "it's her husband, Douglas."

Douglas washed windows for a living. He was no more than five foot, six inches tall, wiry, neatly groomed, and wore T-shirts and Levis always ironed. He made it clear he didn't want anything to do with God or the church. He wanted to come home after work, have his dinner on the table, then watch TV and drink his beer. He got up late on Sunday so it "made no never mind" whether his wife and daughter go to church when he's asleep. But that was it.

Well, Douglas had thrown down the gauntlet, and I picked it up. I made up my mind that I was going to make a home visit and meet Douglas. Judy was against the idea. Douglas "can be rude," she said. She was afraid of what he might say. I assured her that it would be just a short, "Hi, hello" visit.

When I arrived at their home, Judy greeted me with a worried expression on her face. She and her daughter went immediately and sat at the kitchen table. She motioned with her eyes that Douglas was in the other room watching television. As I was leaving, I stuck my head into the room and said, "Hi Douglas. I'm Pastor Mettey. I just stopped by to say hi." He didn't say a word. He acknowledged my presence by turning up the television full volume. Judy and her daughter could have died. I smiled and whispered to them, "This is only round one."

Well, round fifteen came and went. I had never taken the mat as many times with anyone as I had with Douglas. He was stubborn, set in his ways, and was not going to allow anyone, especially a preacher, to change things. On the positive side, he was a hard worker and a good provider. He didn't frequent bars or stay out late with the guys. He was a faithful spouse and loved his daughter. He just wanted to stay to himself and wanted his neighbors to do the same.

Then it happened. I received a phone call from Judy. She said Douglas wanted to see me immediately. It was 11 AM on a Wednesday. "Are you and Alice okay?" I asked. She said it wasn't about them, it was about Douglas. "I have an appointment in thirty minutes. I could see him this afternoon," I told her.

"No," she replied emphatically, "it has to be now, Pastor!"

"Okay," I said. "Have him come up."

It could not be more than five minutes later when I found Douglas pacing outside the door of my study. The man who wanted nothing to do with me or the church now needed us more than ever. He sat down and stared at the floor. He was trembling, his clothes soaked with perspiration. He kept biting on his lower lip. "Man, it was all over," he said repeatedly. "Everything, in a second, would have been gone."

"Douglas," I said calmly, "what happened?"

He was washing windows on the twentieth floor when his side of the scaffolding gave way. His partner was able to grab a rope and hold on. Douglas was in a free fall. Unbelievably, his foot became entangled in a rope which kept him from falling to his certain death. There he was, hanging by a rope, dangling in the air twenty floors up.

He believed that the hand of God wrapped his foot in that rope. There was no other way to explain it. Nobody could make him think otherwise. "I was this much," he said holding up two fingers close together, "from not only going to my death, but also to hell." He wanted to be baptized.

I wanted to get him baptized as quickly as he did, but that wasn't the right way to do it. First I said, "Let's get on our knees and thank God for not making Judy a widow and Alice fatherless. Let's pray and seek God's forgiveness and ask Him to become a big part of your life," which we did. I then told Douglas, "We need to do this the right way. If we don't do this for the right reasons, it won't last." Over the next several weeks, I met with Douglas and we talked about what it meant to become a follower of Christ. I became a welcomed guest in his home.

Douglas was ready. I gave the invitation for those wishing to accept Jesus as their Lord and Savior to come forward. Douglas, his wife, and their daughter left their pew and came to the front of the sanctuary. At the same time, Zell stepped into the aisle and also came forward. These totally different men, who probably would never have been friends in life, were now brothers in Christ.

In a few weeks, I baptized both Douglas and Zell. One a man from Appalachia, the other from the inner city. One a window washer, the other a custodian. God's cracked and blemished jars come in different sizes and shapes.

Douglas, Judy, and Alice attended worship together until they moved to another city. I often think of Douglas, hoping and praying that the fear of God was replaced by the love of God, and that he continued to be that changed man we saw after his brush with death.

A few years after Zell was baptized, on a hot summer's day, we laid him to rest. Of those God sent our way, none touched our lives and hearts in such a short period of time as did Zell. I really don't know why. Maybe we saw a little of Zell in all of us. So lost and imperfect, yet so loved by God and used by Him to make the flowers grow.
Maxine, George, Garland, and Ray

The Gathering

There they were, scattered throughout the congregation, eagerly waiting for the Sunday morning service to begin. First there was Maxine, who, according to her therapist, was "gunning" for us both (not in the literal sense, I hoped). Next was Garland. This was his first visit. Unfortunately, he decided to sit next to the radiators. Then there was Ray, holding one of his pamphlets. And finally George, who was anxiously waiting in the back to be baptized. What would happen in the next hour was not a typical Sunday, but then again, not all that uncommon either. Let's begin with Maxine.

Maxine was in her sixties. She was petite, well dressed, intelligent, witty, and well versed in the Scriptures. As she was growing up, her family faithfully attended both Sunday morning and evening worship and never missed a Wednesday night prayer meeting. Maxine described her home life as loving but strict. True to her upbringing, Maxine never missed attending Sunday school and worship, and she participated in all church activities. She tithed her income and was generous financially when a church member was in need. Maxine was a joy to know and a wonderful addition to our church.

There was one thing about Maxine that caused much speculation in the church. For extended periods of time she'd just disappear, totally incognito. She wouldn't answer her phone or door. Some speculated that she went on luxurious cruises, others thought maybe she went on religious retreats; maybe she just didn't want to be bothered. It certainly was a mystery. Who could have imagined that these were times when Maxine checked herself into a mental hospital? She fooled us all. No one would have believed that Maxine suffered from a mental illness, and that's the way she wanted it. Unfortunately then and even today, there is a certain amount of stigma attached to mental illness.

At these times, her faith brought her little comfort. Quite the contrary, it was a source of discomfort. She did not like taking medication, in spite of its effectiveness. She wanted to rely totally on prayer, the Scripture, and her faith in God. Maxine would not hesitate to take medication for high blood pressure, an aspirin for a headache, or an antacid for indigestion, but when it came to her anxiety or depression, she relied only on willpower and positive thinking. Maxine was suffering needlessly, and unfortunately, when the church could help her the most, she shut them out, too ashamed to admit that she was not the person they thought she was.

Finally, on one visit, Maxine told me her secret. After she made her confession, I gave her a big hug. She was so relieved. She worried that I would reject her or think less of her. I told her she was not alone, that everyone has secrets and battles they fight daily, and that when she had these "spells" (as she called them) that's when she needed the church the most. I asked Maxine if she remembered a hymn we often sing in worship called "The Gathering."

"Kind of," she said tentatively.

"We'll sing it this Sunday, just for you, Maxine, our little secret."

"Okay," she said, smiling for the first time.

The next day, for reasons still unclear, Maxine's therapist and a relative had Maxine committed to a psychiatric hospital for observation. Seventy-eight hours later, the longest she could be held legally without her consent, her doctor called me quite upset. He told me that Maxine was angry and said she was going to get even. "She said she'd be 'gunning' for us," he said.

"Me?" I said, "Why me?"

"I don't know," he said frantically, "But I think she means it."

I told him to calm down and rest assured that Maxine would not follow through on her threats (or would she?).

Not taking any chances, before the worship service began that eventful Sunday, I slipped into the pew next to Maxine. I extended both hands, causing her to take her hands out from under her purse to hold mine. I wanted to make sure she was not holding anything. As we were holding one another's hands, I nudged her purse off her lap onto the pew beside her. Nothing unusual was in her bag. "So, I heard you have had quite a week!"

She smiled and said, "I sure did." "Is everything okay?" I asked. "Don't worry, Pastor, I was just a little upset," she replied. "Remember the hymn I told you about. Be sure you listen to the words, okay?" "Yes, I will. Thank you, Wendell!" With a hug and a smile, I was off to baptize George.

GEORGE FOUND THE LORD WHEN HE WAS EIGHTY-THREE years old. The reason it took so long was because George never looked. He wasn't against religion or the church, he simply had other things to do. He was a good provider for his wife and daughter, but was an absentee father and husband. He traveled the country selling his wares and accumulated a wall full of "salesman of the year" plaques, which his wife grudgingly dusted. Late in life, he became a resident at the Baptist Home and Center. His only daughter and grandchild lived in Arizona. At the center, he was befriended by and fell under the influence of Bert.

One day, Bert asked if George would like to attend church with him. George confessed that he didn't know much about church, but agreed to come. For the next several months, George sat alongside Bert at worship. One day, in a gentle, nonthreatening way, Bert shared with George the ninety-year-old faith journey he had traveled. George then asked Bert a number of questions, which Bert answered the best he could, always emphasizing that God alone had all the answers. The next Sunday, George came forward at worship and accepted Christ as his Lord and Savior and requested baptism. I met with George and we discussed what it means to have a relationship with Jesus and explained how we, as Baptists, practice a believer's baptism by immersion. He asked if I would read before his baptism a poem and a lengthy psalm from the Old Testament. I said I'd be delighted.

The first person to greet me that Sunday morning was a noticeably upset deacon in charge of baptism. Standing six feet, five inches tall, he was the proverbial gentle giant. He was a master when it came to fixing or operating any type of machinery. Like his father, he was also a master carpenter. Bill informed me that the water in the baptistry was ice cold. The heater was turned on, but an air pocket in the lines prevented the water from circulating. There was not enough time to clear the lines and refill the baptistry.

When George arrived, I told him what had happened. He didn't care, he had to be baptized. He was leaving on Monday to live with his daughter in sunny Arizona. He said he had to make up for too many missed opportunities. "Okay," I said.

After the opening hymn, I entered the water complete with my insulated wading boots. Oh my, was the water cold! I swore I could see ice crystals floating on the surface. In the summer it might be refreshing, but not in the dead of winter. Standing on the top step, clad in only a thin gown, already shivering, George forced a smile when I called out his name. As soon as he was ankle deep, his skin turned blue; knee deep, his teeth began chattering; waist deep, he was near hypothermia. I put my arms around his rigid body and whispered, "George, I think we'll skip the poem and the psalm." He motioned, "Good idea." After he accepted Jesus Christ as his Lord and Savior, I tried to position him so I could immerse him in the water. He wouldn't budge. Finally, I bent him forward and baptized him face first. When he came up out of the water, his face was radiant. He was so happy, I don't think he felt the sting of the water any longer. Two deacons quickly wrapped him in towels and got him dressed.

I quickly dried off and went out to lead the worship. There sat Garland, beaming from ear to ear.

WHEN GROWN-UPS ASKED ME WHAT I WANTED TO BE WHEN I grew up, I'd say a minister. I really didn't want to be a minister, but our minister was held in such high esteem I knew that would please grown-ups.

My desire to please people came at an early age. What I really wanted to do was be a garbage collector. Back then we didn't have sanitation workers or trash collectors, we had good, old-fashioned garbage men. They got dirty, threw trash cans around (the metal type), and tossed the metal lids around like frisbees, but the best part was that they got to ride on the outside of the truck and jump on and off while the truck was still moving. That was every little boy's dream, believe me.

I did have one other job in mind that I wanted to do when I grew up and that was playing professional baseball. The smell of my leather glove, sliding into second base, striking out a batter, hitting a bases-loaded double, that was baseball—that's what I really wanted to be when I grew up.

Every Friday night I'd stay up to watch the weather forecast, praying that there would be no rain. Did I say I loved baseball? I remember several opening games in April when it was so cold we had to build a fire in a fifty-five-gallon drum to keep warm. We did not care if it was below freezing, we wanted to play ball.

Our knothole league was divided up into C, B, and A age groups. The C group was 9–11 years old, which played at 10:30 AM, the B group was 12–13 year olds and played at 9:15 AM, and the A group was 14–15 year olds who played at 8 AM. All games were played on Saturdays. We did not have fancy uniforms, the best of equipment, or many coaches. What we did have was the love of baseball and some pretty good baseball players, and most important, we had men who stepped up and volunteered to be our managers. They made it all possible. They were all blue-collar workers who put in long hours at work, yet found time so that we could play the game.

Garland was one of the first managers I had. I was told that when he was a young man he was handsome and trim, with thick, wavy black hair—a really nice young man who loved baseball. When he became our manager, it was obvious that the years had not been very good to him. We were told that something traumatic happened, which changed his life completely and contributed greatly to his drinking problem.

Early each Saturday morning, we'd go to his apartment and help him get himself together for the game. His hands shook so badly he could hardly drink his coffee. He primarily managed the C division. I remember how after each game he'd buy us sodas and chips. He never drank in front of us or came to practices or games inebriated. Even though he was an alcoholic, none of the parents were uncomfortable with him managing their kids' team.

Garland never missed a practice or a game. He worked best with the young players. He was patient and never yelled or embarrassed a ballplayer he was managing. If you really messed up, he'd get you to the side and explain what you did wrong. He taught us to play to win, yet taught us that how we played the game was as important as winning the game. He taught good sportsmanship and yelled something positive when we made a great play or even if we struck out or committed an error. He was also color blind. Regardless of skin color, we all were treated the same. You could not want a better manager to teach the youngest players how to play the game.

When I grew up and came back to the church again as the pastor in 1972, Garland was no longer managing baseball. Our ball fields were turned into Interstate 71 and Garland's drinking problem had gotten progressively worse, as did his health. One day, we ran into one another. After a brief conversation of the good old days, I invited him to church. He said he would, but he never did. An every Saturday night ritual of Garland was to call my house. He wanted to get permission to come to worship. He said he was a drunkard and a sinner and church was no place for such a person. I assured him that there was no better place for him to be. All people are welcome, especially sinners. It was that day he came to worship.

An usher warmly greeted him and took him to a seat. To make our 11:00 AM service, he had to get out of bed early in the morning and go through a long and slow ritual to make himself presentable. He looked so beaten down by life and alcohol. He sat next to a radiator on the side of the sanctuary. The early morning hour combined with the heat made a rather effective sleeping potion. I had seen it happen time and time again. If you sat next to those warm radiators, your eyes would soon close and your head would nod. Startled, you'd jump to attention, look around to see if anyone saw you, lick your lips, and sit as tall as possible. Try as you may, if you wanted to stay awake for the entire service, you should never sit next to those radiators.

Garland's sleep response that morning was different. When he reached deep sleep, he ever so slowly started falling over on his side. The entire congregation behind him started leaning with him all the way down. Once down, they all sat up straight again and continued listening to the sermon. Some may feel that this was disrespectful. He should have sat somewhere else. I just saw the church differently. To me, we were like a hospital where people came to receive healing, possibly a gas station where you could get refueled to go back into the world. That gathering on Sunday was for sinners. Remember those words of Jesus, "It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick . .  for I have come not to call the righteous, but sinners" (Matt. 9:12–13).

SITTING A FEW ROWS BEHIND GARLAND WAS RAY.RAYWASA gentle man who worried constantly about just everything. He was polite, quiet, and mentally ill. One day, he just showed up in our community along with a dozen homeless people. During the 1970s, the powers that be came up with an idea called deinstitutionalization. Basically, mentally ill patients were simply released from mental institutions. Church leaders and social workers did not understand the reason for this, only its consequences. Persons such as Ray were sleeping on the streets, were having their disability checks stolen, and were not being properly medicated. Without any warning or consultation, churches and agencies had to act fast to take care and assimilate the most vulnerable newcomers to our community.

One of the biggest adjustments was worship. As mentioned earlier, it was not at all uncommon for such folks to get up and start walking around during the service. Others would make noise and have loud conversations with themselves. Quite the opposite, Ray sat quietly and responded appropriately to the various aspects of worship.

Ray believed that God had called him to preach the Word. He could often be seen on street corners preaching away and handing out pamphlets that only made sense to Ray, and perhaps the good Lord.

Our ushers stood in the back of the sanctuary during the entire Sunday service, looking for any unusual behavior. They kept one eye closed and one eye opened during the morning prayer because we had so many people who could be unpredictable. On this particular day, however, both eyes must have been shut.

During the morning prayer, I felt the presence of something and I didn't think it was angelic in nature. I opened one eye and there was Ray, quietly standing in front of the pulpit, staring up at me. I came to a fast "Amen." I went down the chancel steps and asked him what he wanted. By this time, two ushers were halfway down the side aisle. I waved them off. Ray told me that God had instructed him to preach at the service that day. I said without thinking, "Well, Ray, He told me the same thing and I was here first." That made perfect sense to Ray, thank God. He voluntarily went back to his seat and never asked to preach again. The service finally came to an end. What a Sunday.

MAXINE CONTINUED TO WORSHIP WITH US FOR ANOTHER year or so. She began taking medication, which greatly changed her life. She shared her secret with a few close friends who said, "No big deal!" Maxine died one spring when the daffodils and tulips were in full bloom.

George's daughter found a new and devoted father and grandfather. Ray stopped coming one day, and we never heard from him again. Garland kept coming and sleeping. After I accepted another pastorate, I saw Garland just one more time. He was still struggling with alcohol, which facilitated his premature death just a few years after that meeting. He would always be my coach.

As I said, that Sunday was not typical, but not at all that uncommon. We took them one Sunday, one person at a time. We tried to be and live out the words of our closing hymn that day:

The Gathering

Out of need and out of custom,

We have gathered here again;

To the gathering we are bringing

Love and laughter, grief and pain.

Some believing, some rejoicing,

Some afraid, and some in doubt,

Come we now our questions voicing,

We would search these matters out.

Come we now our masks displaying,

Fearing that we shall be known,

Foolish games forever playing,

Feeling meanwhile so alone.

Let pretension's power be broken,

To be human let us dare;

Let the truth in love be spoken,

Let us now the questing share.

We have heard the glowing stories

Of the things which God has done,

Of his power and his glory,

Of his love in Christ his Son.

God of human transformation,

For your presence now we pray,

Lead us ever on the journey

As we gather here today.

Words and Music by Ken Medema, ©1977 Word Music, LLC. All rights reserved. Used by permission
Maybelle, India, and Velma

Hard on the Outside, Soft in the Middle

Preaching to a diverse congregation each Sunday was a challenge. The people were as different as my mom's homemade lemon meringue pie and the kind you buy at the store. There were those who had barely finished grade school and others holding PhDs. They differed in ethnicity, nationality, and standard of living. Most lived in the inner city, some in rent-subsidized housing, others in spacious suburban homes. How could I communicate a message that was meaningful and relevant and could be understood by such an assemblage of people?

I heard a pastor say once that every sermon should contain at least one story. Everyone can relate to a story. Over the years, I always followed this rule of preaching: don't put a story into what you are trying to say, put what you are trying to say into a story. Each Sunday I became a teller of stories, and the more real to life the story, the better it communicated to my array of listeners.

I had not planned on being in the pulpit so soon, or as often. Dr. Cowley's death left me and the church little choice. As a neophyte when it came to preaching, the congregation was patient and encouraging, all except for three women who sat through the sermon stony-faced, offering up not the tiniest smile or the slightest affirming nod. I think it was the old Greek philosopher Zeno who came up with the idea of not showing any feeling, or being stoic. Well, these ladies would have been old Zeno's prized pupils. They didn't even respond to what I thought were some of my best stories.They just sat there and stared at me like I was speaking a foreign language. I would soon discover the truth in the saying, "You can't tell a book by its cover." It was certainly true for Maybelle, India, and Velma.

Maybelle's crown jewel was her English heritage. In 1637, her ancestors made the trek from Northern England to the southern part of what is now the United States. Two hundred and eighty years later, Maybelle was born in Atlanta, Georgia. One of the proudest moments of her life was when she became a member of the Daughters of the American Revolution, an honor bestowed only on direct descendants of true patriots who fought in the War for Independence.

Maybelle was short and pudgy. She was generous with her make-up and wore quite an array of jewelry. She was intelligent, an astute business woman, and a shrewd financial investor, which provided her with a comfortable lifestyle until she died. As with the other two women, Maybelle never married or had any children. She joined the church in 1938 and before she died, she was the oldest living member. Maybelle loved God and served her Lord Jesus whenever and wherever called upon. She faithfully attended Sunday services, read the Bible, and was first to help someone in need.

And yet, Maybelle's outward appearance, gruff demeanor, and blunt talk caused people to give her a wide berth. She was intimidating to me as a young pastor. One of the earliest flags of the American Revolutionary War was the Gadsen, named after the American general and statesman Christopher Gadsen. It had on it a coiled rattlesnake with the defiant motto: "Don't tread on me." Unfortunately, this was Maybelle's persona.

Between Maybelle and Velma sat the most dignified and proper India. Living into her nineties, India showed brilliance at a young age. After graduating valedictorian from her high school, she enrolled at Ohio State University in the Department of Architecture. In her freshman year, six women were studying architecture. Beginning her sophomore year, she was the only woman still in the department. After graduation, India went into private practice until she accepted an appointment to the Corps of Engineers in Cincinnati. In January of 1937, the greatest flood ever to occur during a 175-year occupancy of the Ohio River caused, in today's dollars, $3.3 billion in damages, rendering tens of thousands of people homeless. January 1937 was the wettest month in the history of Ohio. In Cincinnati, the Ohio River crested at approximately eighty feet, more than fifty feet above its usual depth. After the great 1937 flood, India traveled throughout the region, not only inspecting flood-control projects, but also engineering projects.

In 1941, she became the first registered woman architect in the state of Ohio. Her projects were many and her accomplishments considerable. Her architecture handprint can still be seen throughout Greater Cincinnati. She received numerous honors and awards, most notably the Distinguished Alumna of Ohio State University and also the Guild of Women in Architecture named after her. India was certainly a pioneer, a real trail slayer, and a wonderful role model for young women wishing to enter nontraditional areas of study and work.

India was small of stature and possessed a gentle spirit; she dressed impeccably and her manners were always gracious. India had known the Lord since she was a child and gave her life to him when she was twelve. I never heard her complain nor speak unkindly about anyone. She joined the church in 1940 and served on most of the boards and committees of the church. She gave generously toward the expenses of the church. We had a friendly, but reserved relationship.

Rounding out the trio was Velma. As with the two other women, Velma was a successful, independent, professional woman. These observations were made from afar or from other people. Velma looked grumpy all the time. I saw her laugh once. I kept my distance. When I was around her, the name dionaea muscipula came to mind, which is the Venus Flytrap, a carnivorous plant. I always felt like I was going to be her next meal.

One afternoon, I received word that Velma had suffered a stroke. I visited her regularly over the next several months. It was at her bedside that I got to know Velma. She was not the Venus Flytrap, but a beautiful child of God, unfortunately not known by many because of her harsh exterior. Inside was a person who loved life and was now terribly afraid of what the future had in store for her. As a Christian, she did not fear death; it was the dying that occupied her thinking. She did not want to live as an invalid, but life was too precious to just toss aside. We talked of many things during those months of convalescence. She reminded me of Dorothy, who decided she was going home from the hospital and would be baptized in the church. Velma had a goal for her life, and she was determined to reach it. One visit, she confided in me her goal. She wanted to move out of the Baptist Home and Center facility and get an apartment of her own. She would need around-theclock assistance, and she had the money to do it. We tried to dissuade her, but she had made up her mind. Unless a relative (there were none), some agency, or an interested party could give cause to the court that she was incapable of living alone, she legally could do as she pleased. She asked me to help her.I said I would with one condition. We'll look at this as a six-month trial. She agreed.

Velma rented a luxurious apartment with a spectacular view of the Ohio River. She assumed the previous tenant's lease of six months. She got her furniture out of storage and had an interior designer decorate her "new home," as she called it. We contacted several agencies seeking to find a live-in companion. After numerous interviews, we found someone we thought would be perfect.

Over the next several months, Velma was as happy as I had ever seen her. Her companion took Velma everywhere. They went to the opera and the symphony; they had their hair and nails done weekly. They shopped, took long drives in Velma's new car, and watched television while munching on popcorn. Velma was on the go so much I didn't see her very often, except when they'd come to worship.

One day, I decided to pay Velma a surprise visit. I asked the doorman if he knew where Velma was because she did not answer her doorbell. He said, "Come to think of it, I haven't seen Velma or her companion for a couple of days." Concerned, I asked the manager to let me into her apartment. He did. To our disbelief, the place looked like it had been ransacked. Velma's companion had abandoned her. She also took anything of value that she could get past the doorman. We called for an ambulance and took Velma back to the hospital and then to the Baptist Home and Center. We discovered that Velma's companion had stolen all of Velma's money. The failsafe system the attorney had put in place to guard against such an occurrence was breached by a very clever and deceitful thief. She was caught and prosecuted, but all the money was gone. Except for her car and furniture, Velma was now penniless.

When I was visiting Velma, I told her I felt guilty and responsible. "This happened on my watch," I said. I asked Velma to forgive me. She reached out her arm and patted my cheek ever so gently. Looking at me for the longest time she smiled and said, "It was a wonderful year. It was a good ending to a very full life." Velma suffered another stroke and died a few months later.

ONE SUNDAY, INDIA GAVE ME A BIG HUG. WOW, I THOUGHT, this wasn't like India. I have never seen her to be so demonstrative. I don't know how and when this all happened, but India was never happier. She smiled more, touched and hugged more. India was in love. She had met a lovely and lonely widower. Theirs was a love that blossomed late in life. It gave off such a delightful aroma and had about it such a singular beauty. It was, however, the last rose of winter. There was no time for tension and quarreling, which often finds its way into relationships. They knew that they were given a gift that had to be returned. They enjoyed one another's company and held precious every moment they shared. The spring of their life together all too quickly came to an end. His cancer returned. This time he refused any debilitating treatments. During those last days of his life, she became his strength when his was failing, his comfort when pain consumed him, and his blessed assurance that life continued beyond the grave. Their life together ended one night, but not their love, which India took to her grave.

On a wintry February day a few years later, we gathered in the Memorial Chapel at Spring Grove Cemetery to say good-bye to our good friend, India. Listening to one after another rise and pay tribute to India, I thought how fortunate we were to have India share our walk in life. I looked out and saw so many young, professional women present who knew how much they owed India. For me, my remembrance of India was the day she gave me that big hug, and the reminder that we are never too old to find love or too late to rekindle a love which has lost its glow. Paul is correct, "Faith, hope and love, but the greatest is love" (1 Cor. 13:13).

Maybelle was now sitting all alone. Her pewmates were gone. It was now just the two of us. All the rage of the 1960s and 1970s was small groups. It doesn't seem like such a big deal today, but then it was revolutionary. Christians wanted to come together in a smaller, more intimate setting and discuss their faith with other believers. Small groups usually met each week in someone's home. Most meetings were about an hour in length and could last for months. During these meetings, a strong bond developed among the participants. For the first time, people had an opportunity to share with others their daily struggles and nagging doubts. People were relieved to discover that they were not alone. We also got to know one another on a deeper, more intimate level. Guess whose group I was in and who would be sitting next to me? That's right, old "Don't tread on me" herself, Maybelle.

Little by little, we got to know the real Maybelle hidden on the inside. She was sharp, witty, and could be hilariously funny. When we were sharing our most embarrassing moments, we laughed until our sides ached when she told us about the time she fell into a manhole. Maybelle loved life and did not take herself too seriously. She was opinionated, but did not force her opinions on others. She also had a deep, abiding faith in God and was well grounded in her beliefs. She was confident, never worried, and nothing seemed to bother her.Then one meeting,she revealed a side of her no one had ever seen before.

The topic for the evening was rejection. Had we ever been rejected, and how did it affect our lives? Everyone took their turn. The room became silent. We were all processing what we had just heard. Finally, Maybelle broke the silence. Ever so softly she said, "I was never popular." We could not believe our ears. "I was always the last to be chosen. Nobody wants you on their side. You never feel like you are a part of the group. You are always on the outside looking in. Every day you feel rejected." She raised her head, looked around the room, and forced a smile. Few times in my life have I felt for another human being as deeply as I did that moment for Maybelle. On the outside, it was "Don't tread on me," but inside it was "Please love me," which I did, from that moment on.

Some jars look perfect on the outside. They are not. Just beneath the surface there are cracks and a closer inspection reveals blemishes. They are not marks to be ashamed about, but opportunities to minister to others. Likewise, we are never to assume that some flowers do not need to be watered. They just appear that way. Even the hardiest flowers, if neglected, will wither and die. I thank God that I had the honor of walking with these courageous women on the side of the road where the flowers grow.
Esaf

Divinely Possessed

The church's pipe organ hadn't played a happy tune for several years. We didn't have the money to fix it, nor knew of anyone who could. A member of the church suggested that we give his brother, Bill, a go at it. While Bill had never worked on an organ before, if the trouble was mechanical or electrical, he could get the job done. Besides, we had been trying to get Bill active in the church for years. Bill agreed to take a look. After hours of pushing and pulling his six foot, five inch body in and out of tiny spaces, Bill got the organ playing. Listening to the organ after a three-year hiatus was a moving and joyful experience. It added greatly to our worship.

Esaf came to the United States from Jordan when she was only seventeen. She did not speak a word of English, yet started working immediately in the family restaurant as a waitress. Three weeks after coming to the United States, her father announced one day that he had some errands to run and told Esaf she was in charge. She was terrified. Using the nonverbal, international language of finger pointing and improvised sign language, she made it through her most memorable day of coming to America. This also revealed Esaf's amazing ability to communicate with people regardless of age, language, culture, or ethnicity.

Bill met Esaf at her restaurant. They started dating and began showing up at the morning worship. Perhaps our age-old question "Will Bill ever get married?" would finally be answered. After the morning service, they told me they were going to get married and wanted me to perform the ceremony. During our prewedding counseling sessions, we talked about their cultural differences, the biggest of which was their different religious practices. Esaf was Christian, but belonged to the Orthodox Church. With absolutely no hesitation, Esaf said it was her tradition that the wife embrace her husband's faith.

A year or so after Bill was climbing around that old, dusty organ loft fixing our organ, he now nervously sat in my study, tuxedo and all, listening to the organ and waiting for he and Esaf's wedding to begin. I was roaming around making sure the candles were lit, the flowers and unity candle were properly displayed, the bride and her attendants were ready, and the ushers were properly seating the guests . .  guest? The groom's side of the sanctuary was filled, but there was not one guest on the bride's side. Perhaps the family did not approve of this marriage, and no one was coming. I quickly briefed Bill of the situation. He just smiled and said reassuringly, "Don't worry, they'll be here." No sooner did he say that than I could hear car horns, doors being shut, and a rush of people laughing and truly enjoying themselves. As soon as the wedding began, her family sat quietly and reverently during the entire service until I said to the groom, "You may kiss your lovely bride." The ladies could not be restrained any longer. It is called a ululation, a high-pitched sound used to express celebration or grief. It is also called the zaghareet, which is performed in the Middle East to honor someone. Esaf had asked the women in her family to refrain from doing this in the wedding, but as the vows were sealed with a kiss, they began making that high-pitched sound, which was reverberated throughout the sanctuary. Esaf whispered, "Oh my God!" Not to be outdone, the groom's side rose and began applauding and yelling the couple's names. Afterward, we all enjoyed a wonderful, as well as an educational, Jordanian reception, belly dancer and all.

Esaf was true to her word of embracing her husband's faith. There was no one more dedicated and loyal to the church than Esaf. I have also never known a more generous person. Esaf would give you the shirt off her back—and one day she did.

She and Bill began going with me on mission trips to Nicaragua. No matter where we were, even in the most remote places, Esaf could reach in her bag and pull out anything someone needed, from bagels to an aspirin to an extra article of clothing. She even produced a little tool kit to repair eye glasses. Esaf had a wonderful laugh and a great sense of humor and was always concerned about the comfort and welfare of others. She lived the golden rule, she had a deep faith in God, and her love for people had no boundaries.

Our group was preparing to leave the northern Nicaraguan city of Matagalpa, located about one hundred thirty kilometers from the capital city of Managua. Its population is one hundred fifty thousand and its elevation about three thousand feet above sea level. The city is known for its cool weather (for a tropical country) and its cloud-covered forest. The name Matagalpa comes from an Indian name, meaning "Let's go where the rocks are." We had spent the previous day conducting a health conference and distributing a semitruck load of first-aid supplies there.

The bus doors had no sooner shut when someone shouted out, "Oh no, there she is. Somebody do something!" The driver immediately stopped the bus, and we began looking around. Another person shouted, "There she is!" There in the middle of that cobblestone street was a tall, slender woman. Her dark hair was all matted, sticking out in all directions. She kept raising her arms and yelling profanities at the people who had gathered on the sidewalk. Her feet were caked in mud, her body filthy and covered with dust. She behaved like she was possessed. She was completely naked. We just sat in total disbelief.

By this time, a large crowd of people stood around watching, some were even taunting her. Most just shook their heads, pointing and whispering to one another. It was truly a scene right out of the Bible.

The Gospel writer Mark tells of a boy possessed with a spirit, which "seizes him . .  dashes him down; and [the boy] foams and grinds his teeth and becomes rigid" (Mark 9:18 RSV). The spirit never left the boy, nor could the boy's father fearing the spirit destroy him.

We just sat there in quiet disbelief, wondering how this was going to play out. All of a sudden, without an expression of intent or a call for assistance, Esaf jumped up, grabbed her bag, pushed open the bus doors, and began running toward the woman. Concerned for her safety, several of us followed. By the time we arrived, Esaf was already in the middle of the street trying to constrain the woman. The woman spun around and lashed out at Esaf with her hands and long fingernails. Somehow Esaf got the woman to calm down. She took an item of clothing from her bag and draped it around the woman, concealing her nakedness. We helped Esaf walk the woman out of the street into a small alley. Esaf wiped the woman's face with a wet rag, which she also pulled from her bag. She pulled the woman, now completely subdued, close to her and hugged her. The hug—it was part of the universal language in which Esaf was so fluent.The crowd, literally dumbfounded by what just took place, began to break up and go their way. Two ladies came over to Esaf and told her that this has happened before, but nobody had ever attempted to quiet her down. They said they had never seen her so peaceful. They said they'd take her to their pastor; he would know what to do. No one said a word the three-hour ride to Managua.

What caused Esaf to throw caution and personal safety to the wind? Why did she, without a moment's notice or the slightest hesitation, do what she did? I believe Esaf was possessed. I believe that Esaf was divinely possessed as surely as that boy in the Bible was demon possessed (mentally ill). The woman's pain and humiliation was more than Esaf could endure. She could not allow an additional moment to pass without doing something to end this woman's hellish nightmare. It was a spectacle Esaf could not permit to continue. No doubt the woman did not feel the pain and humiliation, but Esaf did. Vicariously, Esaf took it upon herself, suffering and anguished for this poor soul. She reached out and touched her as Jesus did that little boy.

While Esaf did not heal the woman, she did cause flowers to grow in the lives of those who witnessed what she did on that wondrous day in such a far away land. One day, God may call on us.
Elwin

The Blemished Painter

Baseball and academic scholarships paid my college tuition and books; my dad's Social Security death benefits paid for my one-room apartment, gas for my 1954 Plymouth, and food (mostly bread and bologna because you could buy them three pounds for one dollar then). I didn't starve, but was often hungry and always broke. One day, I counted the number of jobs I had from the time of my father's death until graduating from seminary. The count: thirty-two jobs! I did everything I could to earn some money. I cut meat in a butcher shop, made pastries in a bakery, sold newspapers on a street corner, chauffeured older ladies to and from shopping and appointments, made ceramic tiles, and was a traveling salesman. The good that came of all these jobs was I found thirty-two reasons why I should get my degree. Perhaps the hardest, hottest, and dirtiest job I had was working at the ceramic tile manufacturing company for two summers. I worked in the back of the plant next to the kilns where the temperature reached over 110 degrees. All day long, we lifted forty-pound "setters" (which held the tile) and put them on shoulder-high conveyors. We then would push them down to the women who inspected, sorted, and boxed the tile. The biggest aggravation came from the women who constantly yelled at us for being too fast or too slow. It was at this most unlikely place I met a man I'll never forget.

His name was Dallas. The first day on the job, I was warned, "Stay away from Dallas." They said, "If ya know what's good fur you, you'd better stay away from him, boy." Dallas's reputation always preceded him. He drank in excess, used foul language, and ended each trip to a bar by getting into a fist fight. Most days he came to work with a hangover and a nasty mood. For some reason, we hit it off and began taking breaks together. One day,I asked him if he was really the person people said he was. He pressed his lips together, nodded his head, and said, "Yeah, pretty much."

"Why?" I asked.

In a rather cavalier manner he said, "Why, I'm Dallas. Come on, son, let's get back to work."

One day, Dallas created quite a stir throughout the plant. He came to work smiling and acting rather strange. He didn't cuss or pick a fight with anyone. Those who worked next to him swore they heard him humming a tune later identified as "Amazing Grace." That afternoon while on break, he confided in me. He told me he went to a revival meeting just so his wife would stop nagging him. At the meeting, he said, "I had a Holy Ghost experience."

Something came over him that would change his life forever. When the Christians at the plant heard about Dallas's conversion, they came up and congratulated him. Many were skeptical, and even tried to provoke him, but Dallas just kept smiling and humming "Amazing Grace." By summer's end, Dallas had gotten together a little group to pray and read the Bible before beginning work. What a transformation!

Elwin had a similar conversion experience. While he and Dallas both hailed from Appalachia, that is where the comparison ends. Dallas was tall, young, muscular, and charismatic. Elwin was in his mid-fifties, stood about five foot, nine inches, and whether he was wearing a T-shirt or a dress shirt, the sleeves were always rolled up. On Sundays he'd wear a tie with a large tie clip. He was portly, neatly dressed, but never fashionable. He was quiet and would steer clear of any controversy. He was neatly groomed and was always cleaning under his nails with a small pocket knife. He attended worship faithfully and participated in all church activities.

Elwin joined the church a year before I graduated from seminary. Under the influence of Dr. Cowley, he gave his life to the Lord and was baptized. When I came to the church, Elwin was a person with little history. I was told that he just showed up one Sunday with his wife and stayed. It was a year or so later when I bumped into a friend who knew Elwin and his family. "Total disbelief," I think were her words. The family was divided. A few said Elwin's conversion was the real McCoy, others said it was just a phase that wouldn't last; the rest, well they just didn't know what to think. My friend did not elaborate, only to say that Elwin had become a totally different person. After seeing the other side of Elwin for all those years, she said, "His change, how can I say this? His change seemed to be beyond the power of even God."

For Christians, such a dramatic conversion is referred to as a "Damascus Road experience." Before the apostle Paul became the great builder of churches, he persecuted the church. He was on his way to the city of Damascus to round up all the Christians he could get his hands on and bring them back to Jerusalem for punishment, when all of a sudden, a flash of light struck him, causing him to go blind. He then heard Jesus say, "Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me" (Acts 9:4 RSV). At that very moment, he changed from the persecutor of Christians to being one of them. For the rest of Paul's life, despite all of his good works, there would be those who never would trust him because they didn't believe that anyone could have such a dramatic change come over his life. Such would be the case with Dallas and Elwin. Some people just couldn't get past someone's past, regardless of the evidence that a change indeed had occurred. Once I saw a sign which said, "If people say something bad about you, live your life so nobody will believe them."

I was at the church for about two years when Elwin wanted to talk. He wanted to serve God in some greater capacity. He had retired and wanted to do more for God. He was thinking about going to seminary. I told him that he needed a college degree and when he graduated, he'd be close to sixty. I also told him that when people have a desire to serve God, they often want to go to seminary. I told Elwin that we do need pastors, but we need more laymen and women who are on fire for the Lord. I asked him what he was good at. He said, "Well, I don't talk too good in front of people and I haven't been a Christian too long." I told him I heard he was handy with his hands. "Yes," he said, "I am a good painter."

"Great," I replied. "Let's begin there. How about painting the inside of the church?"

"Yeah," he nodded, "I can do that!"

Every day from April to October, except Sundays, Elwin painted the church building. With a roller and paint brush in hand, he spread over twenty-five gallons of paint over every paintable surface inside the church with the exception of the sanctuary. I discovered two things about Elwin during his painting days: he loved listening to country music (his little radio went with him everywhere) and he was a mighty fine whistler.

That was a happy time for Elwin. He changed drab spaces into colorful places. It not only brightened up the interior of the church building, but also cheered up the congregation. People enjoyed coming and seeing the progress made. Elwin truly felt a sense of accomplishment. It wasn't seminary, nor was he leading great revivals, but he was doing what God had gifted him to do. He was doing his preaching at the end of a brush. Others stepped forward to work in the church. Some became teachers, others started visiting the shut-ins, a few deacons began a prayer breakfast, still others found ways they could serve in some capacity, big or small, yet all equally important. I am not saying that Elwin was the cause of this minirevival going on in our church, only to say it happened around the time Elwin was painting.

A year or so later, Elwin received bad news. His diabetes had gotten so out of control, it necessitated the amputation of both legs just below the knees. The diabetes also affected him mentally. Every day he drank bottles of Milk of Magnesia while looking out his front window from behind drawn curtains. He was convinced some government agency was spying on him. On one visit I asked his wife, who was a sweet simple person, when he had last been to the doctor. She just shrugged her shoulders and said he wouldn't go. I lifted the towel draped across his legs. Both legs were fly infested, filled with infection, and I believed gangrene had set in. I told Elwin we'd take him to where he'd be safe. He was taken by ambulance to the hospital, where he died a few days later.

We gathered with Elwin's family as we laid our good friend to his eternal rest. By his own admission, he was a man with a checkered past—a past that caused him great shame and one that wasted so many years that could have been used for God's glory. As I tell anyone troubled by past sin, the one thing God cannot do is remember a forgiven sin.

With all his self-admitted cracks, blemishes, and imperfections, God used Elwin that long summer to greatly nourish our church. He did it with the simplest of things— a roller and a brush—and with the most common gift—painting. Each time I go back to that building, I hear that radio playing country music and someone whistling. I smile and thank God for using all of us, cracks and all, as we strive to walk on the side of the road where the flowers grow.
Wilma

Wondering Where God Is

She was the ideal pastor's wife. She was in the foyer before and after the service, welcoming and thanking the people for coming. She was in her mid-fifties, her clothing fashionable, her fingers adorned with expensive rings. On her wrists she wore a diamond-studded watch, and around her neck hung a strand of beautiful pearls. She had a wonderful smile and hugged and greeted everyone equally. She was a wonderful conversationalist. She was wealthy and she wore it well. She was Dr. Cowley's third wife; her name was Wilma.

Someone in her family (I believe it was her brother) had died, and Dr. Cowley ministered to the family during their time of loss. Sometime later they were married. I'm sure they loved one another; however, no one could deny that it was a marriage of convenience. He was her senior by eleven years, and Wilma kidded him about his motives. Perhaps she wanted the companionship and an opportunity to do something meaningful with her life. Wilma could be quite opinionated and could show her disapproval with a volley of verbal remarks. She was a generous person and financially helped the church on many occasions. She was always encouraging me and was kind to both me and my then-fianceé, Mickey. She opened her elegant home to the church for Bible studies, anniversary parties, and board meetings. She was the wealthiest, most visible, and outgoing person of our church. That all changed with the death of Dr. Cowley and the church calling me to be the pastor. Within the time of a last breath, she was no longer the pastor's wife.

She assumed things would continue as always. I assumed nothing. She stayed in the foyer greeting people, which was fine, although a little crowded with both of us. When someone would compliment me, she took that as a criticism of Dr. Cowley. She left her post in the foyer and quit coming to the worship service. She made it known that I had not been by to see why she stopped coming. I was young and inexperienced in these matters. I had more on my plate than I could handle. Visiting someone who was obviously upset with me was something I did not relish. All it would have taken on my part was a little hand holding and attention. I would have chosen the proverbial root canal over visiting her. Atypical of my usual behavior, I procrastinated. When I did visit her, it was too late. I heard a minister say once that sometimes something is so torn it cannot be mended. Her final salvo was sending two church trustees who'd rather have eaten dirt to come and take from the pastor's study all of Dr. Cowley's books, written sermons, and any other items belonging to him.

She never came back to the church. She was hurt and continued to criticize the "new regime," and the direction the church was going.

Six years later, Wilma was diagnosed with cancer. She was in the hospital undergoing treatments, which were painful and made her terribly sick. I decided I was not going to miss this opportunity to reach out to her as a minister and hopefully be reclaimed as a friend. I was older now, and had six years under my belt. To this day, I still dread things confrontational. It was a part of the job description. Standing at her hospital door, I took a deep breath. I tapped on her door as I opened it up. "Wilma, Wilma, can I come in?" I said.

There was a long pause. She faintly whispered, "Yes, it's okay." I think she recognized my voice, but when I walked in, she looked surprised. I decided the visit would be short. Preparing to leave, I asked her if I could visit her again. She nodded yes. Our first visit was awkward and our conversation was superficial. A lot of hurt feelings had to be cleared away. The more I visited, the more we were able to talk about the good times shared together and the man we both loved, Dr. Cowley. We also talked about eternal matters and dealt with the bitterness and resentment she was feeling toward God for all that had happened to her.

Wilma finally moved into a room reserved for those who wanted special care and had the money to pay for it. One day, she was terribly ill and quite depressed. It was a beautiful sunny day. Out her window was a panoramic view of the hills of Cincinnati and northern Kentucky.

Caught up in the beauty of the view, framed in the hospital window, I said, "Wilma, we have a great and wonderful God."

"Yes," she said in a whisper, "I wonder where He is?" She then began to cry.

I went over and we held hands. She knew she'd never leave this room nor celebrate her sixty-forth birthday. All the things she cherished in life would go to relatives or be sold at an estate sale. Most of the people she loved had already preceded her. I talked to her about Jesus and how on the cross He felt forsaken by God and cried out, "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me." Regardless of how she was feeling, the sun never stops shining, only the clouds get in its way. She forgave me and asked God to forgive her. We prayed before I left her room. All that divided us was gone. We were now one in Christ. It would be the last time I saw her.

I received word from the family that she requested that I conduct her memorial service. She even remembered the church in her will. We mustn't delay in watering the flowers God entrusts to our care.
Mary and Joe

The Lord's Been Good to Me

Joe's mother died when he and his brothers and sisters were quite young. Unable to care for his children, his father placed several of them in an orphanage. This was not a happy time for the children, causing them to grow up fast and depriving them of a childhood. At the age of fourteen, Joe got his first job driving a milk truck. He wrecked the truck his first week on the job. He remembered how the owner was more concerned about how he was than the damage to the truck. That reaction of his boss made quite a lasting impression on Joe. His boss taught him a lesson that stuck: people are more important than things. In the late 1930s, Joe met and married a beautiful lady named Mary. A little over a year later, they had their first of four children, three boys and one girl. During World War II, trucking was considered vital to the war effort. Since Joe was manager of a trucking company, he received a military deferment and did not go off to fight in World War II.

Unable to reach a compromise, one day Mary informed Joe that she was going to take the children to Sunday school at the nearby Baptist church, with or without him. "Just don't think I am going," he protested. He was sour on religion and didn't want to have anything to do with church. That Easter, he came to breakfast wearing a suit. Looking at the family, he justified himself by saying that the family should worship together. Joe went with Mary and the children to the Walnut Hills Baptist Church and soon came under the influence of Dr. Cowley's preaching and ministry. Joe was baptized and became scout master, trustee, and church treasurer. Joe was well-liked and highly respected by everyone in the church.

Joe had a shopping ritual he followed faithfully every weekend. On Friday evenings he'd shop at the grocery store. Saturday afternoon he'd go to the produce market. He was such a regular that Tony, the produce man, would have his order all ready. Joe's weekly food bill was thirty-five dollars, an enormous sum of money in the 1950s. He kept the refrigerator full and the walk-in food pantry stacked to the ceiling. Mary said the reason he did this was because as a child he was always hungry. He wanted his children to have plenty to eat.

Mary was a voracious reader, a gifted writer, highly intelligent and a wonderful cook. She loved to laugh, was well informed on current events, and kept the house spotless and beautifully decorated. She was devoted to her children, could quote the Bible chapter and verse, loved God, was a devout follower of Christ, and spoke beautiful English, but was deathly afraid of speaking in front of an audience. When the youngest was an infant, she refused a non-speaking role for she and her husband in the Christmas pageant as Mary and Joseph holding their baby boy.

Mary was also a poet. One of her favorites was "The Legend of the Fairy Stones." This poem came about when Mary was given a "fairy stone." In the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia is the Shenandoah Valley, which is the home of the mysterious fairy stones. Under enormous heat and pressure, certain minerals crystallize into shapes resembling the St.Andrew cross and the Roman cross.The most prized by collectors was the Maltese cross. Mary put these mysterious stones to verse in her poem "The Legend of the Fairy Stones."

The Legend of the Fairy Stones

I wandered aimlessly amid the hills,

Visiting nature in valley and mountain side;

I paused, to rest my weary feet and mind,

The Shenandoah Valley seemed aburst with pride.

The stalwart trees, with gowns of green did glow,

They nodded to the lonesome Pine so tall,

Their waving arms were reaching to the sky,

In prayer and communion with the God, over all.

A pretty maiden approached, and spoke to me.

She handed me a stone, I thought quite rare;

But looking down, she pointed 'round my feet,

These stones abounded everywhere.

She said, here, fairies long ago did dwell.

They knew no troubles or no loss,

Until one day the message came to them,

That Christ was hung upon a cross.

They clasped their hands and knelt in prayer,

Their hearts it seemed would burst with grief;

For as their tears dropped upon each stone

Their time on earth would then be brief.

Upon each stone, where a teardrop fell,

A Cross was formed; and so they say,

One finds these stones lay all around;

The Fairies left 'til Judgment day.

Joe was adored by the church. He was a kind, gentle, and quiet man. He loved his family. He was a wonderful role model to his children and was always there for them. He was a good provider and a faithful husband. His needs were small. He went to work at 5 AM, six days a week. He was good with numbers and a shrewd businessman. He was also a generous man and was there, along with Mary, anytime someone was in need. Mary and Joe worked behind the scenes, seeking and receiving little fanfare.

Joe severely injured his back at work. For the rest of his life, he'd have numerous surgeries, countless injections, and hundreds of dangerous x-rays. He managed his pain by drinking, sometimes excessively when the pain became severe, although he never became an alcoholic. One day, he was diagnosed with a stomach ulcer. A few short, agonizing, painful months later, he died of stomach cancer.

Today we treat death and dying differently than in the 1950s. Then, cancer was a big secret. You just didn't talk about it. You tried to be "brave." Families and their loved ones pretended like everything would be all right, so loved ones died without having the opportunity of saying their good-byes. Hospitals were sterile and isolating, unlike today when families are encouraged to be with their dying loved ones. We also didn't have hospices then. So Joe's family stood around in the hallway and went in to see him one at a time. It was time for the youngest, his fifteen-yearold, to go in. He hadn't seen his father for several days. His mother was trying to protect him. He hardly could recognize his father; he had changed that much in the short period. A sheet was draped over his father's large, hallow, bony frame. His cheeks were sunken. He just stared at the ceiling. He acknowledged no one in the room. He kept moving his lips and doing something with his hands.

"What's he doing, Mom?"

"We don't know, honey," said Mary. "He might be at his adding machine. You know how he loved numbers." She paused. "Maybe he's saying the rosary."

"Rosary? You mean the beads Cliffy takes to church?" "To mass," his mother corrected. "They are a rosary. They help people to remember God." "I was just kidding. We just tease Cliffy. But we don't say . . " "No," interrupted Mary, "but your father did when he was a child. Something you learn young stays with you."

"Oh," their son said, now staring at his father. "Who's Dad speaking to, Mom?"

"I don't know," she said. "Maybe . .  maybe to . . "

"Maybe to Jesus, huh Mom?"

Mary gave her son a hug. "Maybe. Joe. Joe," Mary whispered, reaching out and grabbing one of his arms. "Joe, do you know who this is?"

Joe's head jerked, and he turned it to the side. He reached his hand between the bedrail and stroked his son's cheek with the back of his hand. "Sure I do," he smiled, "That's my boy . .  That's my little boy." He looked at his son for the longest time, then turned his head and resumed staring at the ceiling and working his hands. That evening, Joe died. The funeral director said they had never received so many flowers. The funeral procession seemed to stretch for miles. A few days after Joe's death, Mary penned these words simply titled, "To Joe."

To Joe

It was heartbreaking and sad for the children.

It was heartbreaking and sad for me.

But I could but think as he rested now

That the Lord had been good to me.

Of the good earth's bounty, we'd plenty,

Not riches, fame, or wealth;

But all the love one could lavish

On each other; and good health.

I said a prayer of thanksgiving

For all his cares were o'er.

And for children sent, tho' saddened now

I couldn't have asked for more.

No, we didn't have a fortune

Just plenty of life's cares,

But of golden years together,

I thought, "We'd been millionaires!"

After Joe died, Mary went into a deep and protracted depression. She had depended on Joe for everything. All the children were gone, except for their youngest. The house was big and empty. She was all alone. The little money Joe left would not last long. Mary had only worked outside the home when Joe could not work because of his injury. Lacking the medicine and knowledge we have today, Mary self-medicated with alcohol and prescribed sedatives and was never properly diagnosed or treated. Nineteen years after Joe died, Mary suffered a massive stroke and died.

When we are small, our parents are perfect. When we get older, we begin to realize that our parents are not perfect—they too have their share of cracks, chips, blemishes, and imperfections. They are not the people we thought they were. We see them as human.

When we get even older, we marvel at what our parents did with so very little. We feel their pain, know their sorrow, understand why they did things the way they did. For Mary and Joe, they always found people who were worse off, people who had greater needs, a little money here, a bag of groceries there, being there for others when they were hurting. They paced the floor when one of their children was sick, attended PTA meetings, became a den mother, a scout master, carried burdens privately so their children could have a carefree childhood, and lived sacrificially so their children could have a safe and happy home.

Joe and Mary were the most perfect imperfect parents any child could ask for.

At Mary's graveside I whispered quietly, "Mom, I hope you are at peace now with Dad. Thank you for being such a good mom, especially during the time I was ill as a child. Most of all, thank you for giving me the greatest gifts possible, showing me how to love God with all my being and love my neighbor as myself. Thank you, Mom and Dad, for walking on the side of the road where the flowers grow and for bringing so much beauty into the lives of so many."
Epilogue

The Miracle of the Jars

It was six days since the carrier of water had been to the well to draw water. On the seventh day, the women began their journey to find the man who they came to know and love, the man who brought so much joy and meaning to their lives, the man who had made peace with himself and with God, the man who carried two large jars—one perfect, the other cracked and worn.

Hours later, hot and thirsty, they came to a fork in the road. Which road should they take? "Sir, Sir," cried out one of the women to a man walking toward them, "can you help us?"

"Certainly," the man said.

"We are looking for a man," the woman continued.

"We are sorry to say we do not know where he lives or even his name. And now there is a fork in the road."

"Hmm." the man thought aloud, "Without a name or where ..."

"He carried water," one of the women interrupted.

"Two big jars, one perfect, the other cracked and worn."

"Oh," the man said. "The Carrier of Water . .  follow the road where the flowers grow and you will find him."

The women did as the man directed. They followed the road where the flowers grew until the road came to an end in front of a vast estate with a large mansion. The women again cried out for help, this time to a man carrying wood. When they told the man of their quest, the man dropped his load of wood and reverently took off his hat. Tearfully, he told the women that the carrier of water died, "this very hour, seven days past." The women put their hands over their faces and began crying. Seeking to console the women, he asked them if they would like to see where he was laid to rest.

"Please, sir, please," they answered.

He took them to a large tomb, its entrance sealed with a huge stone. "The man you seek is buried here, an honor bestowed on only the most worthy servants. This is the master's tomb," the man said.

As they were walking away, one of the women asked, "Sir, would it be possible if we could have the jar he carried; not the perfect one, but the cracked and worn one?"

"One?" the man said. "Come and see." He took them to a shed. Inside they found not one, but dozens and dozens of cracked and worn jars. "You can have them all!" How was it that there were so many jars? Well, over the years, when the jars could no longer hold water, he'd replace them with perfect jars, which had become cracked and worn, as all jars eventually do. Why did he not break them up and throw the old ones away? They were his old traveling companions. They brought color and life to the road and meaning and peace to his life. He simply could not part with them.

The women shouted, "We'll take them all." They had a plan.

Early the next morning, the women arrived at the master's estate with two donkey-pulled carts. They carefully loaded their precious, yet fragile, cargo into the carts and began their journey back to the well. They then did the strangest thing. As they traveled, they'd stop and place the jars on the side of the road where the flowers grow, one at a time from the master's estate to the well. By journey's end, their carts were empty.

The next day, it began to rain. The folks who had lived by that road said they could not remember it raining that early in the year. The rain filled the jars, and the flowers were never as beautiful. Then the rains stopped, the jars became empty and the flowers began to fade. Then it happened. People started coming, a few at first, then by the hundreds. The story of the Carrier of Water and his cracked jars spread throughout the land. The people came to see the road he faithfully traveled, the cracked jars he carried, and the flowers he caused to grow. They came with their jars filled with water and poured it into the jars that lined the roadside. They say from that day the Carrier of Water's jars were always full and the flowers were always in bloom.

Walking that old dusty road became a pilgrimage, and the people, pilgrims. They came from near and far: the burdened, the broken, the poor, the lost, the hurting, those cracked, chipped, blemished, and worn down by life.

They came in search of the Great Physician who heals the sick and the Master who forgives sins. They came seeking meaning for their lives and redemption for their souls. They needed to know that while the world may treat them as insignificant, to God they were of great importance and worth. They came to receive the unconditional love of God and to hear that life is what they make of it. Their task in life has only the importance they give it. Their cracks and imperfections are not a curse, but can be used by God to bring others to the side of the road where the flowers grow.

###
Additional Works by  
REV. WENDELL E. METTEY

Are Not My People Worthy? The Story of Matthew 25: Ministries

What God Desires: The Story of the Center for Humanitarian Aid and Disaster Relief

On Which Side of the Road Do the Flowers Grow?

Meet Those Who Met the Master

Lost and Found: Stories of Christmas

The above titles are available at major online book retailers and at  
Matthew 25: Ministries, 11060 Kenwood Road, Cincinnati, OH 45242  
www.m25m.org

Interested in more inspirational works by Reverend Mettey?

Visit www.wendellmettey.com for a collection of his devotions, books and sermons.

For more information visit:  
www.theleastofthesepublishing.com
Read On for a Special Preview of

ARE NOT MY PEOPLE WORTHY?  
 THE STORY OF MATTHEW 25: MINISTRIES  
By Rev. Wendell E. Mettey

"This story demonstrates how we can support something important, compassionate, and powerful—and change lives around the world."  
—Scott Farmer, President & CEO  
Cintas Corporation
Introduction:  
Aiming for the Heart

No sooner had Anne concluded her remarks than her movie-star husband, Kirk Douglas, sprang to his feet and rushed across the stage. At eighty-seven, he still had a commanding stage presence and, apparently, had not lost his fondness for being in front of an audience. Wrapping her up in his arms, he leaned into the microphone and said, "Isn't she wonderful!" He then proceeded to give his leading lady of forty-nine years a big kiss. The audience responded with thunderous applause.

As the Douglases were returning to their seats, Corbin Bernsen, television actor and producer, stepped to the podium to introduce the next recipient. I took a deep breath and glanced at the program. One, two, three recipients ahead of me. Good, I thought. The Douglases would be a hard act to follow! Besides, I was still pinching myself to see if I was dreaming. There I was, on stage at the Kennedy Center, sitting next to "Spartacus" and surrounded by nationally known people who had distinguished themselves in the entertainment industry, the political arena, and corporate America—the Who's Who in America. I was not only sitting among them, but in a few minutes I would be called to speak to them and to a theater full of the unsung heroes, all those who had been invited to Washington to receive the Jefferson Award for Public Service. When my turn came, what was I going to say and how would I say it in the three minutes given to each of the recipients?

On the way to the Kennedy Center that morning, my wife, Mickey, and I shared an elevator with Sam Beard, the president and cofounder of the American Institute of Public Service, the organization sponsoring the ceremonies. Sipping hot coffee and eating a napkin-wrapped danish, he looked at me and said, "Reverend Mettey, keep it short and aim for the heart!" I kept repeating his advice over and over, especially the part about aiming for the heart. No one was adhering to the three minute rule. One of the recipients went on for over twenty minutes. Almost last in the program, I knew I had to keep it short—no problem—but aim for the heart?

I closed my eyes and prayed, Lord, help me aim for the heart! With that prayer the entire Matthew 25: Ministries experience flashed before my eyes.
Chapter One

In the Trenches

In the summer of 1980, I was the pastor of a vibrant, diverse inner-city congregation, the Walnut Hills Baptist Church. Mickey and I had three children: Tim, six; Clare, five; and our youngest, Aaron, was almost two. While attending the University of Cincinnati thirteen years before, I served the church as the youth director. It was also the church in which I grew up. After graduation in 1968, I continued as the youth director while taking a job with the Hamilton County Welfare Department as a caseworker. The district assigned to me was "ground zero" of the race riots which had ended the previous year. Caseworker safety was a major concern of the Department. During orientation, we were given our orders on how and when we could enter our districts. When I started in 1968, things had quieted down but the tension and scars still remained. Burned-out buildings and abandoned storefronts lined the streets. I never felt threatened, however, because I had grown up a neighborhood away.

My caseload consisted of about a hundred households. A majority of my households were single mothers with children. They were referred to as Aid to Dependent Children (ADC) households. I also had clients, as the Welfare Department called them, who were classified as Aid to the Blind (AB), Aid to the Aged (AA), and clients who received short-term assistance, classified as General Relief (GR). The primary job of caseworkers was to visit their clients in their homes and determine if they were still eligible for public assistance. Eligibility Determinations, as they were called, were done once a year for AB and AA, twice a year for ADC, and every three months for GR clients. Every household had a large file of these eligibility reports and other pertinent information. Caseworkers spent most of their time making these files larger. Unfortunately, caseworkers did very little social work.

The average stay for a caseworker at the Welfare Department was three to six months! Idealistic and fresh from college, they thought they were going to make a huge difference in the lives of their clients and do it in a short period of time. They left as quickly as they came, disillusioned and blaming the system for their failure. What else, it was the '60s. The caseworkers who grew up in the inner city, as I did, had an advantage over those who were raised in the suburbs. We knew the realities of inner-city life because we lived them every day growing up. We were more realistic and streetwise.

My clients were primarily African-American. This was my first real exposure to the black community; until this time, I had never been in a black person's home. During my brief but intense fifteen months at the Welfare Department, I was able to confront personal prejudices and dispel stereotypes and came away with a greater appreciation for most I met.

During my time at the Department, I saw clients face enormous obstacles yet hold on tenaciously to the goodness of God. They knew how to laugh and enjoy life, especially when life was hurting the most and when it was anything but enjoyable. I encountered a wisdom among my clients which one could not get from a book or some ivy-covered school; a wisdom which grew out of their life struggles. I'm not sure who said it first, but if the difference between success and failure is simply getting up one more time than we are knocked down, then I met a lot of successful people. I took away from my days as a caseworker many valuable lessons which would personally help me later in life.
Chapter Two

A Good Idea Gone Bad

During my Welfare Department days I began to see major flaws in the way we were seeking to help the poor. I was front-row-center and cheering the loudest when President Lyndon B. Johnson presented his famous March 16, 1964, message to Congress. He opened the speech with, "Because it is right, because it is wise, and because for the first time in our history it is possible to conquer poverty." With that he declared the unconditional "War on Poverty." I was one of the first to enlist and become one of its most loyal soldiers.

The objective of the war was well defined—eliminate poverty that was affecting thirty-five million Americans. The plan was simple—give the poor money, free medical care, and housing. Along with the money and services came programs such as VISTA, Neighborhood Youth Corps, Job Corps, and Head Start. The bureaucracy that administered all of this grew enormously. Serving on the front lines each day, I began to see people become dependent on the Department and, again, upon the very system seeking to make them independent. Case file after case file revealed a cyclical pattern of generational dependence on Welfare. It was seen as a right of passage for a teen to have a child out of wedlock, get assigned her own caseworker, and receive her own Welfare check.

The system was also destroying the traditional family consisting of a mother and father with children. A single woman with a child or children received immediate Welfare assistance; but a couple with children could only qualify for temporary, minimal assistance. There was even a name for this—MIC, "Man in the Case." This meant there was an unclaimed father/husband/man living with the ADC family. We had caseworkers make unannounced visits to the home hoping to catch a MIC. (Caseworkers would even look under beds and in closets.) If a MIC was found, the family could lose their welfare. We were not only creating dependency on the system and trashing the family, we were taking away incentives. The Welfare Department became the company store; our clients became so dependent on it, financially, psychologically, and culturally, they would never be able to break free.

I also saw a growing resentment among the poor. The "War on Poverty" promised more than it could deliver and raised unrealistic expectations. It made getting out of poverty sound so easy. Well, it was anything but easy. Failed attempts caused people to turn on the system. There were many who abused or took advantage of every attempt to help them. In the fifteen months I was there, I was only able to help one courageous mother of five receive her nursing degree and get off of Welfare.

One afternoon on my way back to the Welfare Department, I stopped by the church building. My pastor was there and we had an impromptu meeting in the hallway. He raised the possibility of me going to seminary. A few months later, he accompanied Mickey and me to the seminary which he had graduated from in 1927. That August, Mickey and I moved into seminary housing and I began a three-year Master of Divinity program.

My intention was to receive a dual masters degree in social work and divinity that was offered jointly with the nearby university. I found myself, however, moving away from social work and concentrating more on my divinity studies. This was due primarily to the influence of my professors. For three years I felt as if I were sitting at the feet of the apostles. They opened up the Bible to me in many applicable and relevant ways.

It was three memorable years for both of us. After graduation we came back to the Walnut Hills Baptist Church in Cincinnati, and I became the associate pastor with an emphasis on community work. Dr. Arthur Cowley, who had been at the church for thirty-five years, was my mentor.

Dr. Cowley was certainly colorful. He came alone to the United States from England when he was fifteen years old, carrying the reputation of being the "boy preacher." Handbills carrying his likeness and the time and place of when "little Arthur" would preach were posted throughout London, England. People flocked to these tent revival services to hear him. They were amazed at his maturity, delivery, and understanding of the Bible. Many responded to the call to give their lives to Christ and few went away disappointed. Overcoming many obstacles, Dr. Cowley's purpose in coming to the United States was realized in 1927, when his seminary awarded him a Ph.D. In 1937, he came to the church where he would serve as pastor until his passing. He was a remarkable human being who became an institution in the community during his lifetime. He was the only pastor I had ever known, and he significantly influenced my life.
Chapter Three

"Splanchnizomai"

I never thought that what I was doing was social work, nor did I ever think of myself as a social worker. My undergraduate degree was in economics. I had not even taken a social work course while in college. To me, what I was doing was merely an expression of my Christianity or perhaps the evidence of it. I was drawn to such New Testament passages as 1 John 3:17 (NIV): "If anyone has material possessions and sees his brother in need but has no pity on him, how can the love of God be in him?" And James 2:14 (NIV): "What good is it, my brothers, if a man claims to have faith but has no deeds? Can such faith save him? Suppose a brother or sister is without clothes or daily food. If you say to him 'Go, I wish you well, keep warm and well fed,' but does nothing about his physical needs what good is it (faith). In the same way faith by itself, if it is not accompanied by action is dead."

As a child I was taught by my parents in both word and deed that God was concerned about the whole person. The idea that there existed a dichotomy between the body and soul was completely foreign to me. While I was taught that Jesus came to redeem a lost world, it was also pointed out that he stopped repeatedly on his way to Calvary to help people spiritually, yes, but also physically and emotionally.

We are told that Jesus healed large gatherings of people (Matt. 4:23; Mark 1:34; and Luke 4:40). There were also twenty-three occasions in which Jesus healed thirty-five individuals. It is interesting to note that while some of these people had serious illnesses such as leprosy and mental illness, most did not. For instance, He healed a man with a shriveled hand. One healing could possibly be classified as cosmetic. This healing occurred when He healed Malchus, the servant of the high priest, after the apostle Peter severed his ear.

Why would Jesus heal a person with leprosy one day when the next the person could die of heart failure or contract a deadly disease? Why did Jesus constantly interrupt His eternal mission with these temporal acts of healing? Why did He not say to the possessed and the dispossessed, the poor and hungry, the blind and the lame, "You gotta learn to 'tough it out.' Your pain and misery, like life, are only temporary. Remember God loves you," pat the person on the head, then walk on? Why did Jesus stop to help so many people?

To answer these questions we need to look to the word "compassion". To understand compassion we need to look to the Greek language, the original language of the New Testament.

The Greek word for compassion is "splanchnizomai". It is the strongest Greek word for pity. Its root meaning comes from the word "splanchna" which means "the bowels." To the ancient Greeks the seat of emotion was not in the heart but in the bowels. When we look closely at where and in what context this word is used in the New Testament, we arrive at the following definition: "Compassion is that 'gut wrenching' feeling we experience when we see another human being suffering, which then motivates us to take action to end or alleviate the suffering."

The gospel writers tell of five specific occasions when this word is used—all describe Jesus. Why only five? There certainly were more than five occasions when Jesus was moved with compassion. I believe the writers of the Gospels selected these occasions from the many to show the areas of human suffering which are of greatest concern to God and, therefore, should be for us.

On the first occasion the large crowd of people who gathered around Jesus moved Him deeply. Jesus had stood before many crowds and was not so moved. There was something different about this one. Being physically exhausted from a very demanding travel schedule and emotionally drained by the masses that descended upon Him daily, pleading with Him to fix what was broken in their lives could have added to it. Whatever it was, we are told that when He looked upon this particular crowd, "He had compassion on them because they were harassed or troubled and helpless or scattered like sheep without a shepherd" (Matt. 9:36).

The Greeks had thirteen words for the verb "to trouble". The word used here is "skullo" which means "to flay." To Jesus their pain and suffering could be compared to being skinned alive! The word "scattered" comes from the Greek "rhipto" which means to be "thrown or cast down." They were wondering about aimlessly, "like sheep without a shepherd," troubled, cast down, and lost!

Second, there was the leper who fell at Jesus' feet, pleading for mercy. Lepers were the walking dead in Jesus' day. They were sentenced to a lifetime of isolation and loneliness, abandoned by society, never again to be touched or embraced. People were so afraid of catching the disease, lepers were forbidden to come within a certain distance of people. They were banished from any form of human interaction, except with other lepers. They were totally at the mercy of the community for the basic necessities of their pitiful existence. Seeing this man and hearing his plea to be cleansed so that he could return to his loved ones and the life he once knew, Jesus was "filled with compassion" (Mark 1:41 NIV). Jesus then did the unthinkable, He touched him before He healed him. In doing so, I believe Jesus was making a statement.

When someone was healed the Greek word "iaomai" would be used. But when the leper was healed the word "katharizo" was used which meant "to be made clean." Jesus was saying in His touch that no one is unclean before God. No one is untouchable!

On the third occasion, another crowd had gathered around Jesus. Many had traveled for miles and followed Jesus for three days. Their numbers exceeded ten thousand men, women, and children. Their time with Jesus left them refreshed spiritually, but physically hungry. Thinking that the crowd might turn on them when it was discovered that no provisions were made to feed them, the disciples tried to send them home and make a quick exit. Jesus did not care for this game plan at all. He did not see the crowd as a potential threat or danger. It was an opportunity to show how God was concerned for the whole person. He said, "I have compassion on the crowd" (Matt. 15:32 NIV), and performed the only miracle recorded in all four Gospels, the feeding of the multitude with a few fish and loaves of bread.

The fourth occasion happened on that ancient Jericho road. Two blind beggars could not believe their good fortune when they heard Jesus walking by. They called out, but those around Jesus pushed them away and told them to be quiet. But they shouted even louder. They would not be denied this opportunity. What a pathetic sight—arms flailing, heads shaking, matted hair, dirty faces, pushed and shoved—a few in the crowd no doubt found it humorous, most found them disgraceful. Jesus saw it as neither. He pushed the crowd aside and "(having) compassion on them touched their eyes" (Matt. 20:34 NIV). Before Jesus healed them, He asked them a question: "What do you want me to do for you?" They did not say, "give us our sight" or "help us see again." They said in unison, "Lord, let our eyes be opened!" Their great pain did not come from being blind, but from what being blind took from them. It closed off the world to them.

The fifth and last recorded time Jesus was moved with compassion was perhaps the saddest occasion of all. Jesus and the disciples came upon a funeral procession. Someone had died, a resident of the little town of Nain. Walking alone behind the casket was a widow who was burying her only son. Without a husband or son she now had absolutely no standing in the community. She was totally disenfranchised and at the mercy of the townspeople. Mercy didn't seem too promising coming from such a small town. She was better off than the leper and the blind, but not by much. On the occasion of her son's death, society would dispose of her because of something which she could not control. She became the dispossessed. We are told that "His (Jesus') heart went out to her." He was moved by compassion and raised her son to life (Luke 7:13).

On these five occasions we see how Jesus was filled with compassion for the crowds who were troubled and physically hungry, those shunned by society, the untouchables, those closed off from the world, and, finally, the dispossessed.

There is no question that Jesus pointed people towards the eternal, the "here after," but He lived and reached out to people in the "here and now." We see in these acts of compassion that it does matter to Jesus how we treat one another and it especially matters how we treat the disadvantaged. We not only see this arising out of these acts of healing and compassion, but we see it throughout His life.

He confronted those in authority who mistreated people, "Woe to you teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites" (Matt. 22:13). He also attacked the corrupt system which was taking advantage of the people when He overturned the money changers in the temple, saying they were a "den of robbers" (Matt. 21:12–13). He constantly went after a religious system which was big on show but neglected the more important matters of, ". . . justice, mercy, and faithfulness" (Matt. 23:23).

Jesus broke down racial barriers (John 4). He was an advocate for children (Mark 9:36; 10:13–16); for the oppressed, "(You) teachers tie up heavy loads and put them on men's shoulders, but then you are unwilling to lift a finger to move them" (Matt. 23:4); and for the victimized (John 8:1–11).

Jesus condemned a society that honored the rich man who lived in the proverbial lap of luxury while ignoring poor Lazarus who, covered with sores, begged at the rich man's gate everyday (Luke 16:19). What kind of society would be so "uncompassionate" that neither the rich man nor any other passersby would help such a poor soul?

Jesus did not see souls walking around, he saw people. The same people we see, complete with skin and bones, emotions, daily trouble, worries, illnesses, and, yes, of course, an eternal soul. With Jesus it was never either/or, it was always both/and. I was not a caseworker because of some theological statement I wished to make. It was simply that my "guts" ached when I saw someone suffering and all I could think of was finding a way to end or, at least, relieve the suffering. 
