Following The Leader
Stories
Object:
Contents
"Following the Leader" by Peter Andrew Smith
"Breakdown in Holly Springs" by Keith Hewitt
* * * * * * *
Following the Leader
by Peter Andrew Smith
Galatians 1:1-12
"You need to know," John said as he entered the church kitchen. "There is some grumbling about this outreach program."
Ted opened a grocery box and started to fill the empty shelves. "What is it this time? A problem with the noise because we served soup yesterday?"
"Ted, you need to listen. This is serious."
"Sorry, John." Ted turned to face his friend. "What is the problem?"
"Some people are saying that we are making things worse by feeding people."
"I don't understand. How can we be making things worse by helping?"
John folded his arms. "There is talk around the church that some people are taking advantage of us because they don't really need the free meal."
"Ah, that one again." Ted turned back to his task.
"You've heard this before?"
"Sure."
"And?" John asked.
"And what?"
"Are we being scammed? Are there people who come here to get a meal who already have food at home and could survive without it?"
"I have no idea." Ted shrugged. "Probably."
"Don't you care?"
"Not really."
"Why not? The people who don't have to be here are taking food out of the mouths of those who are really deserving."
"There is always plenty of food prepared. No one ever leaves here hungry."
"That isn't the point. It is the principle."
"I agree." Ted reached for the next box to unload. "Who comes here John?"
"People who are hungry."
"Exactly."
"But what about those who are cheating? Those who are not really hungry. I mean I saw someone in here the other day who I know has money."
"Really? How do you know?"
John looked away. "I saw his deposit slip when I was in line behind him at the bank."
"So he is rich."
"No, but he does have some money."
Ted stopped what he was doing and looked at John. "So why do you suppose he comes here?"
"He is taking advantage of the generosity of the church."
"Why do you say that?"
John stomped his foot. "I already told you. It is obvious. He has enough money to feed himself."
Ted went back to stocking the shelves. "Maybe hunger has to do with more than just food."
"What do you mean?"
"Do you ever think that maybe some of the people come here for the company, the conversation, and to be welcomed as well as for the food?"
"But that isn't what this program was set up to do," John said. "This is here to fill empty bellies."
Ted paused. "Maybe there is more hunger out there than just physical hunger."
"I never thought of that." John rubbed his chin. "But those people should only come here if we have enough to feed them. We should tell people to stay away unless they are desperately hungry."
"When we set up this program we were quite clear. Everyone is welcome. No questions and no exceptions," Ted said. "I don't see any reason why that should change."
"You're not being reasonable. I'm not kidding there are some people who are not happy with what is happening here. They think it is a waste of their money."
"Why? The program has enough in donations to keep running and we have plenty of volunteers. Given the numbers who come through here each meal I think we are doing something important." Ted looked over at John. "Did you see who was in church on Sunday morning?"
John rubbed his forehead. "That's another thing that is causing problems. There was some talk about the 'type of people' that this program is attracting to our church."
"You mean people who are looking to know Christ?"
John scowled. "You know what I mean. I was happy to see the Walkers in church on Sunday but there was a buzz among some of the congregation. I'm afraid everything that is happening is starting to change people's opinions about this program."
Ted smiled. "Is that what is really bothering you?"
"Yes. I know this meal is important to those who come here and I'm worried that if the people start to be unhappy with what we are doing that they won't support us. Doesn't that worry you?"
Ted shook his head. "Not in the least."
"Why not?"
"Think about what we are doing. Feeding the hungry, getting people involved in helping others and welcoming people to the church so that they feel comfortable coming here not just to eat but also to pray and worship." Ted paused for a moment. "Do you think we are doing what Jesus asks us to do?"
"Absolutely."
"Good. Because at the end of the day as Christians we don't follow popular opinion. We follow Christ."
John looked at his friend for a moment and then reached down, opened the next box of groceries, and helped to fill the shelves.
Peter Andrew Smith is an ordained minister in the United Church of Canada who currently serves at St. James United Church in Antigonish, Nova Scotia. He is the author of All Things Are Ready (CSS), a book of lectionary-based communion prayers, as well as many stories and articles, which can be found listed at www.peterandrewsmith.com.
Breakdown in Holly Springs
by Keith Hewitt
Luke 7:1-10
The car broke down not far from Holly Springs, Nebraska.
And when I say "broke down," I mean it had a breakdown -- remember HAL, from 2001: A Space Odyssey? If a car can have such a thing, it had a nervous breakdown. One minute we were cruising down I-80 at a legal 75 (as far as you know), and the next the dashboard lights up like a Christmas tree and the brakes start applying themselves -- which I suppose wouldn't be so bad if they were all working at the same time, which they weren't. The car swerved around like it was being hit by high winds until it dropped below 40, and then all seemed normal.
If it bothered Mark, he didn't show it; just kept his eyes focused on the road, and his hands on the wheel, correcting and braking as he needed to. Once the car seemed to be running normally, he glanced over at me and said, "That was interesting."
"Uh-huh," I agreed, declining to mention that my life had flashed before my eyes when a semi had come screaming up behind us, whipping around at the last second with inches to spare. Frankly, I didn't like what I saw, but that wasn't his problem.
"Let's try that again." Smoothly, we began to accelerate again, hit cruising speed, and all seemed to be okay -- for a mile or two. Then it happened again, but this time Mark was ready, and there was less ping ponging around the lane. Since driving at 40 miles per hour on the interstate seemed suicidal, he accelerated again, going through the cycle half a dozen more times before we came up to an exit -- the last one for 52 miles, it warned. "I think we need to get this looked at now," he explained, and I did not argue.
It's not that I have a good life, exactly, but I'm kind of fond of it.
The town was like thousands of other towns in rural America, its only concession to the interstate being a couple more motels than you would normally expect, a fast food joint built into one of the four gas stations, and three car repair places. I know that last because I counted them as we drove past each one… "Holly Springs Auto Center," "Phil's Auto Repair," and "Fixit Auto and Diesel."
"Why didn't you stop?" I asked, as we passed the last one. "You're not going to find a dealership out here in the middle of nowhere."
"I know. I just want to do some research, first." He rolled to a stop outside a diner and turned off the engine. The dashboard winked at him, as if to remind him that it still needed looking after. I got out when he did, perplexed as to why we were stopping here instead of taking care of the car, first. When I looked my question at him, he just inclined his head toward the diner and said, "Let's get some coffee."
If Holly Springs was like every other rural town in America, then The Cornhusker was like every other small town diner. It might have been a gas station at one time -- it had that hint to it -- but over a period of years it had evolved its own look. In front, there was a vestibule with a door at each end, sheltering the actual entrance at the center front of the building.
Just inside there was a cash register, a rack of post cards that looked like they could have been from the 70s, and a sign that said "Seat Yourself," and pointed to the right. The dining area to the left was darkened, and the way was blocked by a single chair. Probably only opened for the dinner rush, I thought, as we found an empty table; not hard, at that time of the morning. There were only a few stragglers from breakfast left over, plus one traveling couple, studying a map.
The waitress swung by just a few seconds after we sat down. She was young, pretty without whacking you over the head with it and carried herself with the self-assurance of someone who'd been doing this all her life. "Hi, my name is Michelle. Can I get you folks something?" she asked, smiling down at us, poised with her pad open.
"Hi, Michelle. Coffee for me," Mark answered, smiling back, then glanced at me; her eyes followed his.
"Diet Coke?" I asked hopefully.
She shook her head regretfully, scrunched up her face a little as though to show disdain for what she had to say next. "Diet Pepsi. That okay?"
Just once, I'd like to say no. I smiled back, nodded. "Sure."
"I'll be back in a jif," and she walked away without hurrying, but taking no time, either.
"Gotta hit the men's room," Mark announced suddenly and stood up. "Be right back." Instead of going right there, though, he stopped at a couple of tables along the way, talking to the locals; he avoided the tourists. By the time he came back, our drinks had arrived. He took a sip of coffee, held it for a moment before swallowing, then took a deeper draught before saying, "When we're done, we'll go over to Phil's Auto, and see if we can get it fixed today."
"Was that the recommendation?" I asked, sipping at my own drink. It was wet; that was about the best I could say for it.
"Two out of three, anyway," he agreed.
We didn't linger over our caffeine for long. When we pulled into Phil's, at the other end of town, there were four or five cars parked opposite the garage, which consisted of two bays, both with open doors. In one, a boy who couldn't have been more than 16 was changing oil in an SUV; in the other, a man of 50 or so was working under the hood of a pickup truck. The boy glanced up when he heard us pull in, looked over his shoulder, and said quietly, "Dad!"
The mechanic pulled his head out from under the hood, studied us for a moment, then lay down his tools and came out, wiping his hands on a yellow rag that he kept tucked in his pocket; other than moving the grease around a bit, I don't think it helped. When he got closer, I could see the name "Phil" embroidered on his greasy blue shirt.
"Mornin'," he said. "Can I help you?"
"Yeah, we were driving on the interstate and had a little problem," Mark began, and then gave him a detailed description of what had happened. As he spoke, Phil stepped up to the car and walked around it, studying it as though the exterior might hold some clue; Mark fell in step alongside him. When he finished, Phil asked a couple of questions, then nodded. "Think you can fix it?" Mark asked.
"I expect so," Phil answered. "I've got some ideas." He looked up at the sun, then into the garage, and seemed to be calculating. "Can you come back after lunch? A little later in the afternoon?"
"That fast?" He gestured toward the other cars. "Looks like we've got a line ahead of us."
Phil shrugged. "Nothin' big, I'm just finishing up with a water pump on that F-350, then I can get you in. Those are all local folks, I can get to 'em when I get to 'em; they'll be around. You need help now."
Mark grinned and handed him the keys. "Thank you, Phil. We appreciate your help."
As we were walking back to the diner -- which seemed like it might be the social hub of Holly Springs -- I said, "Mark… you didn't get an estimate."
"Nope," he agreed cheerfully.
"Shouldn't you have?"
He shrugged, looked at me sideways. "We're not back home. We've got a car that's sick, and a man who says he can fix it. I'll trust him -- the people at The Cornhusker seemed to. That's good enough for me."
"Sure but do you trust them?" I asked reasonably.
He looked at me and shook his head woefully. "Where is your faith?"
We passed the balance of the morning reading the Holly Springs News Democrat, answering emails on our phones, watching TV, and nursing drinks in a booth at The Cornhusker. Lunch was a temporary distraction; I earned a dirty look from Michelle by building a pyramid out of sugar cubes, then over-tipped her to try to get back into her good graces. It sort of worked -- by the time her shift ended, we were on speaking terms again.
I think Mark took that as a sign that we should go back to Phil's shop.
After a leisurely half-mile walk, we found his car sitting in front of the shop. Phil was inside, writing up the ticket as we entered. "She's all done, Mister Randall," Phil said, glancing down at the paper. "Took a little bit of doin', but we tracked the problem down and fixed it. These darn new cars are great when they work, but once something goes wrong, they can get pretty broke, pretty fast." He said the last a little apologetically, as he turned the paper around and slid it across the counter to Mark.
"And that is the truth," Mark agreed, as he scanned the bill, signed it, and took out his wallet, handed Phil a credit card. The mechanic took the card, put it in an imprinter that was something from my childhood, put the bill over it, then slid the bar back and forth, offered the card and the carbon of the bill to Mark. Mark put both in his wallet.
I managed to say nothing until we were in the car and going up the on ramp to I-80, then I stirred and said, "You're okay with this?"
He looked puzzled. "With what?"
"It's 52 miles to the next town, and you're going to take this car up on the highway without testing it first, to make sure it's fixed?"
"Phil said he would fix it. He said it was fixed."
"But you don't know him!"
"I know enough. I know most of the people I talked to trust him, and I didn't hear anything bad. And I know the man's got his own name on his business -- I think that means something. And he said it was fixed. I trust him."
We were merging, now, and I shook my head slightly. "Didn't you tell me to always trust, but verify?"
He looked thoughtful for a moment, then shrugged. "Sometimes -- sometimes, if you've heard the right things, and you've got a good feeling -- sometimes, you just trust. Trust that a man's going to do what he said he's going to do." He looked at me, then, and winked. "It's okay if it doesn't make sense -- it's faith."
Then he punched it and the answering growl from the engine told him he was right.
Keith Hewitt is the author of three volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a local pastor, former youth leader and Sunday school teacher, and occasional speaker at Christian events. He is currently serving as the pastor at Parkview UMC in Turtle Lake, Wisconsin. Keith is married to a teacher, and they have two children and assorted dogs and cats.
*****************************************
StoryShare, June 2, 2013, issue.
Copyright 2013 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
"Following the Leader" by Peter Andrew Smith
"Breakdown in Holly Springs" by Keith Hewitt
* * * * * * *
Following the Leader
by Peter Andrew Smith
Galatians 1:1-12
"You need to know," John said as he entered the church kitchen. "There is some grumbling about this outreach program."
Ted opened a grocery box and started to fill the empty shelves. "What is it this time? A problem with the noise because we served soup yesterday?"
"Ted, you need to listen. This is serious."
"Sorry, John." Ted turned to face his friend. "What is the problem?"
"Some people are saying that we are making things worse by feeding people."
"I don't understand. How can we be making things worse by helping?"
John folded his arms. "There is talk around the church that some people are taking advantage of us because they don't really need the free meal."
"Ah, that one again." Ted turned back to his task.
"You've heard this before?"
"Sure."
"And?" John asked.
"And what?"
"Are we being scammed? Are there people who come here to get a meal who already have food at home and could survive without it?"
"I have no idea." Ted shrugged. "Probably."
"Don't you care?"
"Not really."
"Why not? The people who don't have to be here are taking food out of the mouths of those who are really deserving."
"There is always plenty of food prepared. No one ever leaves here hungry."
"That isn't the point. It is the principle."
"I agree." Ted reached for the next box to unload. "Who comes here John?"
"People who are hungry."
"Exactly."
"But what about those who are cheating? Those who are not really hungry. I mean I saw someone in here the other day who I know has money."
"Really? How do you know?"
John looked away. "I saw his deposit slip when I was in line behind him at the bank."
"So he is rich."
"No, but he does have some money."
Ted stopped what he was doing and looked at John. "So why do you suppose he comes here?"
"He is taking advantage of the generosity of the church."
"Why do you say that?"
John stomped his foot. "I already told you. It is obvious. He has enough money to feed himself."
Ted went back to stocking the shelves. "Maybe hunger has to do with more than just food."
"What do you mean?"
"Do you ever think that maybe some of the people come here for the company, the conversation, and to be welcomed as well as for the food?"
"But that isn't what this program was set up to do," John said. "This is here to fill empty bellies."
Ted paused. "Maybe there is more hunger out there than just physical hunger."
"I never thought of that." John rubbed his chin. "But those people should only come here if we have enough to feed them. We should tell people to stay away unless they are desperately hungry."
"When we set up this program we were quite clear. Everyone is welcome. No questions and no exceptions," Ted said. "I don't see any reason why that should change."
"You're not being reasonable. I'm not kidding there are some people who are not happy with what is happening here. They think it is a waste of their money."
"Why? The program has enough in donations to keep running and we have plenty of volunteers. Given the numbers who come through here each meal I think we are doing something important." Ted looked over at John. "Did you see who was in church on Sunday morning?"
John rubbed his forehead. "That's another thing that is causing problems. There was some talk about the 'type of people' that this program is attracting to our church."
"You mean people who are looking to know Christ?"
John scowled. "You know what I mean. I was happy to see the Walkers in church on Sunday but there was a buzz among some of the congregation. I'm afraid everything that is happening is starting to change people's opinions about this program."
Ted smiled. "Is that what is really bothering you?"
"Yes. I know this meal is important to those who come here and I'm worried that if the people start to be unhappy with what we are doing that they won't support us. Doesn't that worry you?"
Ted shook his head. "Not in the least."
"Why not?"
"Think about what we are doing. Feeding the hungry, getting people involved in helping others and welcoming people to the church so that they feel comfortable coming here not just to eat but also to pray and worship." Ted paused for a moment. "Do you think we are doing what Jesus asks us to do?"
"Absolutely."
"Good. Because at the end of the day as Christians we don't follow popular opinion. We follow Christ."
John looked at his friend for a moment and then reached down, opened the next box of groceries, and helped to fill the shelves.
Peter Andrew Smith is an ordained minister in the United Church of Canada who currently serves at St. James United Church in Antigonish, Nova Scotia. He is the author of All Things Are Ready (CSS), a book of lectionary-based communion prayers, as well as many stories and articles, which can be found listed at www.peterandrewsmith.com.
Breakdown in Holly Springs
by Keith Hewitt
Luke 7:1-10
The car broke down not far from Holly Springs, Nebraska.
And when I say "broke down," I mean it had a breakdown -- remember HAL, from 2001: A Space Odyssey? If a car can have such a thing, it had a nervous breakdown. One minute we were cruising down I-80 at a legal 75 (as far as you know), and the next the dashboard lights up like a Christmas tree and the brakes start applying themselves -- which I suppose wouldn't be so bad if they were all working at the same time, which they weren't. The car swerved around like it was being hit by high winds until it dropped below 40, and then all seemed normal.
If it bothered Mark, he didn't show it; just kept his eyes focused on the road, and his hands on the wheel, correcting and braking as he needed to. Once the car seemed to be running normally, he glanced over at me and said, "That was interesting."
"Uh-huh," I agreed, declining to mention that my life had flashed before my eyes when a semi had come screaming up behind us, whipping around at the last second with inches to spare. Frankly, I didn't like what I saw, but that wasn't his problem.
"Let's try that again." Smoothly, we began to accelerate again, hit cruising speed, and all seemed to be okay -- for a mile or two. Then it happened again, but this time Mark was ready, and there was less ping ponging around the lane. Since driving at 40 miles per hour on the interstate seemed suicidal, he accelerated again, going through the cycle half a dozen more times before we came up to an exit -- the last one for 52 miles, it warned. "I think we need to get this looked at now," he explained, and I did not argue.
It's not that I have a good life, exactly, but I'm kind of fond of it.
The town was like thousands of other towns in rural America, its only concession to the interstate being a couple more motels than you would normally expect, a fast food joint built into one of the four gas stations, and three car repair places. I know that last because I counted them as we drove past each one… "Holly Springs Auto Center," "Phil's Auto Repair," and "Fixit Auto and Diesel."
"Why didn't you stop?" I asked, as we passed the last one. "You're not going to find a dealership out here in the middle of nowhere."
"I know. I just want to do some research, first." He rolled to a stop outside a diner and turned off the engine. The dashboard winked at him, as if to remind him that it still needed looking after. I got out when he did, perplexed as to why we were stopping here instead of taking care of the car, first. When I looked my question at him, he just inclined his head toward the diner and said, "Let's get some coffee."
If Holly Springs was like every other rural town in America, then The Cornhusker was like every other small town diner. It might have been a gas station at one time -- it had that hint to it -- but over a period of years it had evolved its own look. In front, there was a vestibule with a door at each end, sheltering the actual entrance at the center front of the building.
Just inside there was a cash register, a rack of post cards that looked like they could have been from the 70s, and a sign that said "Seat Yourself," and pointed to the right. The dining area to the left was darkened, and the way was blocked by a single chair. Probably only opened for the dinner rush, I thought, as we found an empty table; not hard, at that time of the morning. There were only a few stragglers from breakfast left over, plus one traveling couple, studying a map.
The waitress swung by just a few seconds after we sat down. She was young, pretty without whacking you over the head with it and carried herself with the self-assurance of someone who'd been doing this all her life. "Hi, my name is Michelle. Can I get you folks something?" she asked, smiling down at us, poised with her pad open.
"Hi, Michelle. Coffee for me," Mark answered, smiling back, then glanced at me; her eyes followed his.
"Diet Coke?" I asked hopefully.
She shook her head regretfully, scrunched up her face a little as though to show disdain for what she had to say next. "Diet Pepsi. That okay?"
Just once, I'd like to say no. I smiled back, nodded. "Sure."
"I'll be back in a jif," and she walked away without hurrying, but taking no time, either.
"Gotta hit the men's room," Mark announced suddenly and stood up. "Be right back." Instead of going right there, though, he stopped at a couple of tables along the way, talking to the locals; he avoided the tourists. By the time he came back, our drinks had arrived. He took a sip of coffee, held it for a moment before swallowing, then took a deeper draught before saying, "When we're done, we'll go over to Phil's Auto, and see if we can get it fixed today."
"Was that the recommendation?" I asked, sipping at my own drink. It was wet; that was about the best I could say for it.
"Two out of three, anyway," he agreed.
We didn't linger over our caffeine for long. When we pulled into Phil's, at the other end of town, there were four or five cars parked opposite the garage, which consisted of two bays, both with open doors. In one, a boy who couldn't have been more than 16 was changing oil in an SUV; in the other, a man of 50 or so was working under the hood of a pickup truck. The boy glanced up when he heard us pull in, looked over his shoulder, and said quietly, "Dad!"
The mechanic pulled his head out from under the hood, studied us for a moment, then lay down his tools and came out, wiping his hands on a yellow rag that he kept tucked in his pocket; other than moving the grease around a bit, I don't think it helped. When he got closer, I could see the name "Phil" embroidered on his greasy blue shirt.
"Mornin'," he said. "Can I help you?"
"Yeah, we were driving on the interstate and had a little problem," Mark began, and then gave him a detailed description of what had happened. As he spoke, Phil stepped up to the car and walked around it, studying it as though the exterior might hold some clue; Mark fell in step alongside him. When he finished, Phil asked a couple of questions, then nodded. "Think you can fix it?" Mark asked.
"I expect so," Phil answered. "I've got some ideas." He looked up at the sun, then into the garage, and seemed to be calculating. "Can you come back after lunch? A little later in the afternoon?"
"That fast?" He gestured toward the other cars. "Looks like we've got a line ahead of us."
Phil shrugged. "Nothin' big, I'm just finishing up with a water pump on that F-350, then I can get you in. Those are all local folks, I can get to 'em when I get to 'em; they'll be around. You need help now."
Mark grinned and handed him the keys. "Thank you, Phil. We appreciate your help."
As we were walking back to the diner -- which seemed like it might be the social hub of Holly Springs -- I said, "Mark… you didn't get an estimate."
"Nope," he agreed cheerfully.
"Shouldn't you have?"
He shrugged, looked at me sideways. "We're not back home. We've got a car that's sick, and a man who says he can fix it. I'll trust him -- the people at The Cornhusker seemed to. That's good enough for me."
"Sure but do you trust them?" I asked reasonably.
He looked at me and shook his head woefully. "Where is your faith?"
We passed the balance of the morning reading the Holly Springs News Democrat, answering emails on our phones, watching TV, and nursing drinks in a booth at The Cornhusker. Lunch was a temporary distraction; I earned a dirty look from Michelle by building a pyramid out of sugar cubes, then over-tipped her to try to get back into her good graces. It sort of worked -- by the time her shift ended, we were on speaking terms again.
I think Mark took that as a sign that we should go back to Phil's shop.
After a leisurely half-mile walk, we found his car sitting in front of the shop. Phil was inside, writing up the ticket as we entered. "She's all done, Mister Randall," Phil said, glancing down at the paper. "Took a little bit of doin', but we tracked the problem down and fixed it. These darn new cars are great when they work, but once something goes wrong, they can get pretty broke, pretty fast." He said the last a little apologetically, as he turned the paper around and slid it across the counter to Mark.
"And that is the truth," Mark agreed, as he scanned the bill, signed it, and took out his wallet, handed Phil a credit card. The mechanic took the card, put it in an imprinter that was something from my childhood, put the bill over it, then slid the bar back and forth, offered the card and the carbon of the bill to Mark. Mark put both in his wallet.
I managed to say nothing until we were in the car and going up the on ramp to I-80, then I stirred and said, "You're okay with this?"
He looked puzzled. "With what?"
"It's 52 miles to the next town, and you're going to take this car up on the highway without testing it first, to make sure it's fixed?"
"Phil said he would fix it. He said it was fixed."
"But you don't know him!"
"I know enough. I know most of the people I talked to trust him, and I didn't hear anything bad. And I know the man's got his own name on his business -- I think that means something. And he said it was fixed. I trust him."
We were merging, now, and I shook my head slightly. "Didn't you tell me to always trust, but verify?"
He looked thoughtful for a moment, then shrugged. "Sometimes -- sometimes, if you've heard the right things, and you've got a good feeling -- sometimes, you just trust. Trust that a man's going to do what he said he's going to do." He looked at me, then, and winked. "It's okay if it doesn't make sense -- it's faith."
Then he punched it and the answering growl from the engine told him he was right.
Keith Hewitt is the author of three volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a local pastor, former youth leader and Sunday school teacher, and occasional speaker at Christian events. He is currently serving as the pastor at Parkview UMC in Turtle Lake, Wisconsin. Keith is married to a teacher, and they have two children and assorted dogs and cats.
*****************************************
StoryShare, June 2, 2013, issue.
Copyright 2013 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
