Welcoming
Illustration
Stories
Contents
“Welcoming” by Peter Andrew Smith
“Journey to Moriah” by Keith Hewitt
Welcoming
by Peter Andrew Smith
Matthew 10:40-42
Timmy ran over to where Joan was sitting. “Mom, can I have some of those fruit slices?”
“Sure.” Joan dug into her bag and passed him a piece of apple. “Who is that boy you’re playing with?”
“I don’t know.” Timmy shrugged as he chewed. “I think his name is Samir.”
Joan looked at the little boy standing next to the swings waiting for Timmy. “Did you ask if he wanted something to eat as well?”
“I never thought to.” Timmy swallowed. “Can I have some more?”
“After you ask Samir if he wants some apple.” Joan paused. “If he does then he has to ask whoever brought him to the park if it’s okay.”
Timmy ran over to his new friend and a conversation with some pointing and gesturing took place. Samir fired off a question in a language Joan didn’t know and a woman in a head scarf looking after a baby looked up and replied in the same language. Samir and Timmy then spoke a little more before both boys ran over to their respective parents.
“Didn’t he want anything?” Joan asked.
“Yeah, he’ll be over in a minute.” Timmy waited as patiently as possible before Samir arrived.
“Hello, Samir,” Joan said. “I’m Timmy’s mother. Would you like some apple slices?”
“Is there anything on them?” Samir asked.
Joan shook her head. “Nothing but apples.”
“Then yes, please.”
“Did you check with your mother to see if it was okay?” Joan asked nodding toward the woman with the baby.
“Yes, she said I could have one as long as I offered you some of my dates.” Samir opened a small bag of tiny dried dates.
“None for me, thank you but Timmy can have one if he wants.”
The boys sat near her and ate their snack before returning to the playground equipment. Samir paused on the way to give the remaining dates back to his mother. She waved at Joan who waved in reply. Joan picked up her bags and went over to introduce herself.
“Hi, I’m Joan, Timmy’s mother.”
“I am Amal, I think you met my boy Samir and this is Alisha.”
“She’s sweet.” Joan smiled at the baby. “How old is she?”
Amal sat the gurgling baby on her knee. “Alisha is almost six months old.”
“That’s a great age,” Joan said. “I haven’t seen you at the park before and I don’t think the boys have met before today.”
Amal nodded. “No, we have just arrived in the area.”
“What brings you to our town?”
“My husband works at the naval base.”
“So does my husband.” Joan sighed. “He’s away on deployment again.”
“My husband heads off when the carrier group departs.” Amal paused. “Do you work as well?”
“I do — part time in an office. What about you?”
“I did some secretarial work for a law firm.” Amal moved the baby to her other side. “But that was a while back.”
Joan nodded. The two women watched the boys playing for a while. They chatted about the difficulties of being in a military family. Joan described where things were in town and the different things available on base for families. Eventually they went back to watching the boys playing.
“Do you go to a church in town?” Amal blushed when Joan turned toward her. “I saw the cross you are wearing and thought you might know where the church is. I am sorry if I was too personal.”
“No, I’m happy to answer.” Joan touched the cross on her neck. “We go to the little church on Main Street. We prefer it to the chapel on base because the Main Street Church has a better children’s program.”
Amal nodded and resumed watching the boys play.
Joan took a deep breath. “Were you looking for a church?”
“I have been talking about it with my husband,” Amal said. “His family never went anywhere but mine always went to church. I would like Samir to hear more about Jesus and find a place to grow in faith.”
“Would you like to come with us on Sunday?” Joan asked. “I know it can be intimidating to go to a new place and I would love to have someone to sit with.”
Amal smiled. “Thank you, that would be wonderful.”
Joan smiled back and they made plans to meet up before church on Sunday. She was grateful that Amal asked about church and more grateful that she took the step to invite her. As they watched the boys playing, Joan knew that something wonderful was taking place in that park.
* * *
Journey to Moriah
by Keith Hewitt
Genesis 22:1-14
The train whistle sounded long and low — it was a mournful sort of sound that made his heart ache. George Randall frowned as he looked north on the railroad track, whistling softly and off-key. He didn’t know he was doing it until the voice behind him cut through his thoughts and said, “Dad, what are you whistling? I remember that song from somewhere.”
Fixing a slight smile on his face, he turned to his son and sang quietly,
Mademoiselle from Armentieres Parlez-vous,
Mademoiselle from Armentieres Parlez-vous
She got the palm and the croix de guerre
For washin' soldiers' underwear
Hinky-dinky parlez-vous
John Randall nodded, smiling for real. “I remember. You learned that song when you were in the army — in France.”
George nodded. “About a hundred verses of it, at least. A sergeant taught it to me when I first got there — said it would help take my mind off things.”
“Did it?”
George shrugged. “Sometimes.”
There was a short pause. “Are you trying to take your mind off things now?” his son asked.
George shrugged again, turned to look back up the track. He started to whistle again, stopped. Without turning, he said, “You don’t have to do this, you know.” Then he did turn, looked directly at his son. “I know — ” he hesitated, “ — three people on the Draft Board. You’ve just finished school, you could be doing essential work for the war effort for me, not — ” He paused, reluctant to give voice to the beast coiled in his chest. “ — not getting shot at by Nazis. Or Japanese.”
John Randall frowned. “We talked about this, Dad. I’m young, I’m healthy — I’m what they need right now. Didn’t you always tell me that once I know I’m right about something, I have to just do it — and not let anyone talk me out of it?”
“I think that was your mother. And she didn’t know you were going to decide to go off to war.”
John raised his hands, gestured to the air around them. “Then what? While the world goes up in flames, I should be working in your office, balancing your accounts? This is you, Dad. Whenever I asked you about the Great War, you always said you did what you needed to do — that when his country needs him, a man steps up…or he’s not really a man. You never said much about the war, but I know you said that.”
I never said much about the war because it’s the most horrible experience a man can have, and I never expected you to have it. I never saw a day when my own words would send my child to the land of Moriah. George blinked, hesitated just a moment to be sure he hadn’t said it out loud, then shook his head. “This is different. You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into. It’s…” He trailed off, shook his head again.
“It’s the right thing to do, Dad. I know it’s dangerous — I’m not stupid. But if I can’t be bothered to serve my country when it needs me, then what good am I? You taught me that.”
“I wish you would stop saying that,” George murmured.
John reached out, then, touched his father’s arm. “Dad — I’m serious. Everything you ever told me about your dad, volunteering to serve in the Spanish American War — about your grandfather Lee, volunteering in the Civil War. And you — you volunteered in the Great War. Everything you’ve ever told me is that this is the right and honorable thing to do. You can’t just try to take it all back, now. I can’t not volunteer.”
George, you never knew when to shut up, did you? he thought. “Johnny — John — war is a soul grinding horror show that never ends. I know what it did to me — I don’t want that to happen to you. I’m not ready to make that sacrifice.”
His son looked at him, his expression determined — but a little bit lost. “Dad, when the time comes, when the need is there, you don’t get to choose what to sacrifice. You have to do what you have to do — and so do I. I’m going — I hope you can live with that. And I hope you can explain it to Mom.”
His father sighed. “I’m afraid she already hates me, Son. But I’ll try.”
“I’m coming back — I promise.”
George nodded. “I know.” I knew a lot of boys made that promise, and didn’t.
They made small talk, then, until the train arrived. Then one more hug, an awkward goodbye, and John Randall climbed aboard the train. The car was full, so he stood in the aisle gripping his suitcase with one hand, and the handrail with the other. The whistle blew, the train lurched, and it began to pull away from the station.
John watched out the window as the platform — and his father — receded. And as the train carried him toward his own Moriah he began to sing to himself:
Mademoiselle from Armentieres Parlez-vous,
Mademoiselle from Armentieres Parlez-vous…
*****************************************
StoryShare, June 28, 2020, issue.
Copyright 2020 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.
“Welcoming” by Peter Andrew Smith
“Journey to Moriah” by Keith Hewitt
Welcoming
by Peter Andrew Smith
Matthew 10:40-42
Timmy ran over to where Joan was sitting. “Mom, can I have some of those fruit slices?”
“Sure.” Joan dug into her bag and passed him a piece of apple. “Who is that boy you’re playing with?”
“I don’t know.” Timmy shrugged as he chewed. “I think his name is Samir.”
Joan looked at the little boy standing next to the swings waiting for Timmy. “Did you ask if he wanted something to eat as well?”
“I never thought to.” Timmy swallowed. “Can I have some more?”
“After you ask Samir if he wants some apple.” Joan paused. “If he does then he has to ask whoever brought him to the park if it’s okay.”
Timmy ran over to his new friend and a conversation with some pointing and gesturing took place. Samir fired off a question in a language Joan didn’t know and a woman in a head scarf looking after a baby looked up and replied in the same language. Samir and Timmy then spoke a little more before both boys ran over to their respective parents.
“Didn’t he want anything?” Joan asked.
“Yeah, he’ll be over in a minute.” Timmy waited as patiently as possible before Samir arrived.
“Hello, Samir,” Joan said. “I’m Timmy’s mother. Would you like some apple slices?”
“Is there anything on them?” Samir asked.
Joan shook her head. “Nothing but apples.”
“Then yes, please.”
“Did you check with your mother to see if it was okay?” Joan asked nodding toward the woman with the baby.
“Yes, she said I could have one as long as I offered you some of my dates.” Samir opened a small bag of tiny dried dates.
“None for me, thank you but Timmy can have one if he wants.”
The boys sat near her and ate their snack before returning to the playground equipment. Samir paused on the way to give the remaining dates back to his mother. She waved at Joan who waved in reply. Joan picked up her bags and went over to introduce herself.
“Hi, I’m Joan, Timmy’s mother.”
“I am Amal, I think you met my boy Samir and this is Alisha.”
“She’s sweet.” Joan smiled at the baby. “How old is she?”
Amal sat the gurgling baby on her knee. “Alisha is almost six months old.”
“That’s a great age,” Joan said. “I haven’t seen you at the park before and I don’t think the boys have met before today.”
Amal nodded. “No, we have just arrived in the area.”
“What brings you to our town?”
“My husband works at the naval base.”
“So does my husband.” Joan sighed. “He’s away on deployment again.”
“My husband heads off when the carrier group departs.” Amal paused. “Do you work as well?”
“I do — part time in an office. What about you?”
“I did some secretarial work for a law firm.” Amal moved the baby to her other side. “But that was a while back.”
Joan nodded. The two women watched the boys playing for a while. They chatted about the difficulties of being in a military family. Joan described where things were in town and the different things available on base for families. Eventually they went back to watching the boys playing.
“Do you go to a church in town?” Amal blushed when Joan turned toward her. “I saw the cross you are wearing and thought you might know where the church is. I am sorry if I was too personal.”
“No, I’m happy to answer.” Joan touched the cross on her neck. “We go to the little church on Main Street. We prefer it to the chapel on base because the Main Street Church has a better children’s program.”
Amal nodded and resumed watching the boys play.
Joan took a deep breath. “Were you looking for a church?”
“I have been talking about it with my husband,” Amal said. “His family never went anywhere but mine always went to church. I would like Samir to hear more about Jesus and find a place to grow in faith.”
“Would you like to come with us on Sunday?” Joan asked. “I know it can be intimidating to go to a new place and I would love to have someone to sit with.”
Amal smiled. “Thank you, that would be wonderful.”
Joan smiled back and they made plans to meet up before church on Sunday. She was grateful that Amal asked about church and more grateful that she took the step to invite her. As they watched the boys playing, Joan knew that something wonderful was taking place in that park.
* * *
Journey to Moriah
by Keith Hewitt
Genesis 22:1-14
The train whistle sounded long and low — it was a mournful sort of sound that made his heart ache. George Randall frowned as he looked north on the railroad track, whistling softly and off-key. He didn’t know he was doing it until the voice behind him cut through his thoughts and said, “Dad, what are you whistling? I remember that song from somewhere.”
Fixing a slight smile on his face, he turned to his son and sang quietly,
Mademoiselle from Armentieres Parlez-vous,
Mademoiselle from Armentieres Parlez-vous
She got the palm and the croix de guerre
For washin' soldiers' underwear
Hinky-dinky parlez-vous
John Randall nodded, smiling for real. “I remember. You learned that song when you were in the army — in France.”
George nodded. “About a hundred verses of it, at least. A sergeant taught it to me when I first got there — said it would help take my mind off things.”
“Did it?”
George shrugged. “Sometimes.”
There was a short pause. “Are you trying to take your mind off things now?” his son asked.
George shrugged again, turned to look back up the track. He started to whistle again, stopped. Without turning, he said, “You don’t have to do this, you know.” Then he did turn, looked directly at his son. “I know — ” he hesitated, “ — three people on the Draft Board. You’ve just finished school, you could be doing essential work for the war effort for me, not — ” He paused, reluctant to give voice to the beast coiled in his chest. “ — not getting shot at by Nazis. Or Japanese.”
John Randall frowned. “We talked about this, Dad. I’m young, I’m healthy — I’m what they need right now. Didn’t you always tell me that once I know I’m right about something, I have to just do it — and not let anyone talk me out of it?”
“I think that was your mother. And she didn’t know you were going to decide to go off to war.”
John raised his hands, gestured to the air around them. “Then what? While the world goes up in flames, I should be working in your office, balancing your accounts? This is you, Dad. Whenever I asked you about the Great War, you always said you did what you needed to do — that when his country needs him, a man steps up…or he’s not really a man. You never said much about the war, but I know you said that.”
I never said much about the war because it’s the most horrible experience a man can have, and I never expected you to have it. I never saw a day when my own words would send my child to the land of Moriah. George blinked, hesitated just a moment to be sure he hadn’t said it out loud, then shook his head. “This is different. You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into. It’s…” He trailed off, shook his head again.
“It’s the right thing to do, Dad. I know it’s dangerous — I’m not stupid. But if I can’t be bothered to serve my country when it needs me, then what good am I? You taught me that.”
“I wish you would stop saying that,” George murmured.
John reached out, then, touched his father’s arm. “Dad — I’m serious. Everything you ever told me about your dad, volunteering to serve in the Spanish American War — about your grandfather Lee, volunteering in the Civil War. And you — you volunteered in the Great War. Everything you’ve ever told me is that this is the right and honorable thing to do. You can’t just try to take it all back, now. I can’t not volunteer.”
George, you never knew when to shut up, did you? he thought. “Johnny — John — war is a soul grinding horror show that never ends. I know what it did to me — I don’t want that to happen to you. I’m not ready to make that sacrifice.”
His son looked at him, his expression determined — but a little bit lost. “Dad, when the time comes, when the need is there, you don’t get to choose what to sacrifice. You have to do what you have to do — and so do I. I’m going — I hope you can live with that. And I hope you can explain it to Mom.”
His father sighed. “I’m afraid she already hates me, Son. But I’ll try.”
“I’m coming back — I promise.”
George nodded. “I know.” I knew a lot of boys made that promise, and didn’t.
They made small talk, then, until the train arrived. Then one more hug, an awkward goodbye, and John Randall climbed aboard the train. The car was full, so he stood in the aisle gripping his suitcase with one hand, and the handrail with the other. The whistle blew, the train lurched, and it began to pull away from the station.
John watched out the window as the platform — and his father — receded. And as the train carried him toward his own Moriah he began to sing to himself:
Mademoiselle from Armentieres Parlez-vous,
Mademoiselle from Armentieres Parlez-vous…
*****************************************
StoryShare, June 28, 2020, issue.
Copyright 2020 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.
