“Of course we’ll come,” Bree said. “Just let me tell the guys.”
He blinked back the moisture in his eyes. “Thanks, Bree.”
She cut back through the crowd, and as she did so, someone caught her arm. She turned and saw Camille Jackson, a long-time member who’d buried her six-year-old daughter a year ago, after a tragic car accident. “Hi, Camille.”
Camille’s mouth trembled. “Bree, I know you’re busy, but I was so moved by what you said tonight. And I want to help. I’ve been steeped in grief for the past year, but there were dear church members who helped me through it. And now I’m ready to help somebody else.”
Bree’s spirit swelled. The Holy Spirit was at it again.
“One of you mentioned that you’d ministered to a man whose pregnant wife had lost her baby. I was thinking that maybe I could help with that.”
Bree’s heart tugged between laughter and tears. “Oh, Camille. We’re going to talk to her tonight. Would you come with us?”
Her face slowly brightened, and her lips stretched into a smile. “Yes, of course I will. Let me go tell my family.”
Bree began to laugh as she watched Camille hurry back through the crowd.
“What’s so funny?”
Dabbing her eyes, she turned to find Andy behind her. “The Holy Spirit is still doing supernatural works. He doesn’t need us to have superhuman skills.” She swallowed and drew in a deep breath. “Andy, we have an appointment tonight with Sam Jones’s wife and sister-in-law. And Camille Jackson is coming with us.”
They found Sharon Jones curled up in a recliner with a blanket over her. Shadows made half circles under her eyes, and grief seemed to have cast a pale pallor over her skin.
She wasn’t in the mood for company. Her sister, Shelly, bustled around trying to make the home hospitable as the four of them filed in behind Sam and squeezed together on the couch.
Sam knelt next to her. “Honey, I know you don’t feel like talking, but I’m worried about you, and I think these people can help.”
Andy leaned forward and cleared his throat. He had rehearsed his speech all the way over, but as he opened his lips to speak, Camille jumped in.
“Sharon, I lost my little girl a year ago. I think I know something of what you’re going through.”
Sharon straightened instantly, and that glazed look in her sad eyes faded. Her eyes locked onto Camille’s face. “You did? How old was she?”
“She was six. She was hit by a car when she ran out of the yard to chase a ball.” Camille had trouble getting the words out, and the pain on her face reflected that on Sharon’s.
Sharon nodded. “People think that since my baby hadn’t been born, since I hadn’t held him alive in my arms, hadn’t heard his voice, hadn’t lived with him at home, that it wasn’t like losing a real child.”
“I don’t think that,” Camille whispered. “He was your baby, and you had your heart invested in him. You felt every kick, every movement. You heard his heart beating at every doctor visit.”
Sharon started to cry. “I saw him sucking his thumb on the ultrasound.”
Camille wiped her own tears. “I know. He was your son, and you’re going to hurt for a long time.”
Sharon brought the blanket up to cover her face as she wilted. Camille got up and knelt beside Sharon’s chair, stroking her hair. “Are you going to have a funeral for your baby?”
Sharon sucked in a sob and looked at her husband. “My mother thinks it’s a bad idea. That it would be too painful. That it would drag things out. But I want to have one. I want to honor his little life. I want to have a place I can go . . .”
“You could still have one,” Camille said. “I think it would be nice. I think it would help you a lot. I’ll help you plan it if you want.”
Andy looked at Bree and Carl, and Bree understood his silent message: They weren’t really needed here. There was little they could add. Camille was the one Sharon needed now.
When the time was right, they left Camille talking to Sharon, and Sam walked them to the door. “I don’t know how to thank you. She’s been closed up ever since it happened. I didn’t even know she wanted a funeral. For a stranger to come here and love her like that, to bond with her in such a way . . . I just don’t know what to think.”
“Think the obvious,” Andy said. “Think that the Lord loves you and Sharon so much that He sent the only person in our church who knew exactly what to say.”
As they got back into the car, all three of them still struggled with the emotion constricting their throats. Finally, Andy managed to speak.
“You know, I went there with every intention of sharing the plan of salvation with her. Of closing the deal. Helping them pray the prayer. But the Holy Spirit taught me something I didn’t expect.”
“Me too,” Bree said. “He taught us that we have to love first. That’s what hurting people respond to.”
Carl nodded. “It doesn’t take fancy-shmancy sales tactics for people to come to Christ. They’ll be drawn to Him automatically if we just love them. Who isn’t drawn by love?”
19
SEVERAL OF THE CHURCH MEMBERS HAD EXPRESSED a desire to help May by cleaning up her house, stocking her cabinets, cooking some meals, and doing repairs on her house, so the trio headed to the hospital to ask her for the key. They were still pensive and quiet as they rode the elevator to her floor.
May’s door was pulled almost shut, so Bree raised her hand to knock. But then she heard voices in the room and pushed the door slightly open to see if she was interrupting anything.
Dr. John Fryer sat next to May’s bed, a Bible in his lap, reading from the book of Matthew. Sarah sat on the other side of the bed, holding the old lady’s hand, and soaking in every word.
Bree knocked.
“Come in, come in!” May grinned at the trio. “All my new friends. The Lord is so good.”
The sight of three to whom they’d ministered, ministering now to each other, filled Bree with such poignant feelings that she didn’t trust her voice. “How are you, May?”
May reached up to hug her. “I’m wonderful. How could I not be?”
Andy and Carl hugged her too. “We don’t want to interrupt this Bible study,” Andy said. “But May, some of the church members wanted to bring food to your house and do some cleaning and repair work. We wanted to get your permission.”
“Well, of course. Those dear people. They must have known I’d be going home tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Bree looked at Dr. John.
“I’m releasing her tomorrow, since I know that Sarah’s going to be there to help her at home. She’ll have to come back every day for physical therapy, but Sarah has committed to getting her here.”
Sarah smiled. Her countenance was so different than what they’d seen in her just days earlier. “I’ll take real good care of her.”
“I know you will,” Bree said.
Carl clapped his hands. “Well, that means that the food and help is coming in the nick of time. Would you give us a key so we could let them in tonight? Some of the members are all set to get busy.”
May smiled over at Sarah. “I gave my key to Sarah, but she could go with you and let you in. Sarah, you run along with them, honey, and you supervise. One of us needs to be there to thank those darling folks.”
Sarah left with them, her still-bruised face glowing. They drove over to May’s house and saw that several cars already waited in front of her yard. Sarah let them in and accepted a hug from each person as they bustled in, joy and peace pulsating from them as they set about to work for the Lord by loving Sarah and May.
Bree, Carl, and Andy worked until after eleven that night. They were the last to leave, but as they looked around at the house that had been so dusty and drab before the church members had cleaned it up, they knew it would provide a sweet welcome home to May tomorrow. Sarah bustled around as if she’d already made herself at home, excited that she could now begin to pass the love she’d found on to s
omeone else.
Bree was sure the guys were as tired as she by the time they left the house. As they got into the car, they saw headlights approaching them. The car slowed down next to theirs, and Andy looked in the window.
Lawrence Grisham, the man who’d buried his wife earlier that day, sat behind the wheel. “I was hoping I’d catch you. After church tonight, I heard about the lady who lives here. Some of the members were making plans to help her. I would have come sooner, but it took me a long time to get the kids to bed tonight. Their grandparents are at the house now, so I wanted to run over and offer some help.”
Bree shot Carl an amazed look.
“That’s really great of you,” Andy said. “But we’re about finished here. We stocked the kitchen, and several of the ladies brought casseroles and stuff. And we gave the house a real thorough cleaning.”
Lawrence nodded. “Well, I thought of something I could do. I’m a builder, you know. I thought I’d come over here with my crew tomorrow and make the house wheelchair accessible. I heard the woman’s paralyzed on one side, so she’ll be in a wheelchair for a while.”
Andy stood up straight and looked back at the two of them. Bree and Carl both began to cry.
Lawrence seemed puzzled by their reaction, so he shifted his car into park and got out, peering at them over the hood. “Did I say something wrong?”
Bree shook her head. “No, not at all.” She went around the car and hugged the man. “I’m just so amazed at the way God works.”
She felt his body shake as he hugged her back.
“I was just thinking the same thing,” he whispered.
20
CARL WAS QUIET AS HE PULLED INTO BREE’S driveway, and Andy leaned up on the seat and patted her shoulder.
“It’s been fun, guys,” Bree said. “I’ll never forget the things we’ve done these last few days.”
“I know,” Andy said. “I’ll be changed forever.”
Carl set his wrist on the steering wheel and looked at a spot on his windshield. “I miss my gift, though. I felt so anointed there for a while. I was so full of purpose.”
Andy sighed. “We still have purpose, Carl. And we are anointed.”
“We are,” Bree agreed. “We’re chosen, and God has given us work to do. It was really great having God work through us like that. But you know something? I’ve felt God working through us tonight too, even since our gifts went away. He did things just as mighty and amazing as He did when I could see with His eyes, or when Carl walked with His feet, or when Andy spoke with His tongue.”
Andy started to laugh softly. “And the best part was seeing Him work like that in the rest of our church. Everyone having a purpose. Every purpose working together.”
“And the fruit bearing fruit.”
Bree shifted on the seat so that she could look Andy fully in the face. “We can’t go back to the way we were before. I don’t ever want to ignore all those needy people around me again. I don’t want to be useless anymore.”
“Me, either,” Carl said. “I’ve devoted my feet to the Lord from this point on. I’m going where I’m told. Like Isaiah 52:7 says, ‘How lovely on the mountains are the feet of him who brings good news, who announces peace and brings good news of happiness, who announces salvation, and says to Zion, “Your God reigns!”’”
Bree squeezed Carl’s arm. “I’m going to devote my feet to Him too. And I’m going to try to keep seeing with His eyes.”
“‘Blessed are the eyes which see,’” Andy said. “Luke 10:23. You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to keep studying my Bible, so I can be ready in season and out of season. So that I can know God’s truths well enough to speak it boldly.”
“Let’s all vow to do that,” Bree said.
“From now on,” Carl agreed, “let’s be ready to speak the praises of God.”
Andy nodded. “Just like Zacharias did in Luke 1:64.”
“We may have lost our gifts,” Bree said. “But we’re still so gifted because of Christ and all He’s given us. And when we go back to work and we start trying to invite people to our Bible study again, I think it’ll be different this time. This time, we’ll be using the power we have in the Holy Spirit. Loving them, filling their needs, attracting them to what we are in Christ.” She grinned. “This time we won’t leave it all up to e-mails and brochures.”
“I’m with you.” Carl reached out to take her hand. “We’re a team.”
Andy put his hand over both of theirs. “All for One, and One for All. That’s God’s plan for His Body.”
“What a plan it is,” Bree whispered. “What an awesome, amazing plan.”
READING GROUP GUIDE
1. Merriam Webster’s Dictionary defines “ministry” as “a person or thing through which something is accomplished.” Applying that definition to the Christian faith, I would add that Christian ministry is “a person or thing through which something is accomplished to further Christ’s kingdom.” What have you done lately to further the kingdom of Christ?
2. In your church, are there two groups— those who serve and those being served? Which group are you in?
3. What are some excuses people use for not getting involved in ministry?
4. Some believe the paid ministers in your church are the ones who should do all the work in furthering the Kingdom. Read Ephesians 4:11–12. What does Paul say the ministerial staff are supposed to do? Who is supposed to do the actual “work of service”?
5. List the attributes of those in your church who seem to do everything. For instance, are they compassionate? Are they merciful? Do they have special skills? What makes them better suited for ministry than others? Are they really better suited, or are they just more willing?
6. Read Romans 12, then list the gifts in this passage. Do your gifts fit into any of these categories?
7. What crises or trials in your life might have prepared you for helping others?
8. What would a “spiritual triage” look like in your church?
9. Are there examples in your church, or in your area of ministry, where you’ve seen your fruit bearing fruit?
10. What attributes in your personality or skill sets could help further the kingdom of Christ?
11. At the end of your life, what would you like to have accomplished? Write an obituary of your life, the way you’d like for it to read. Then ask God to help you live that kind of life.
Also from Terri Blackstock
Excerpt from Covenant Child
ONE
There’s a question that haunts me in the blackest hours of night, when wasted moments crowd my dreams and mock the life I know. The question is this: How could a child born of privilege and promise grow up with nothing?
I was Somebody when I was born. Lizzie, my twin, says we were heiresses all along. “Our grandfather was a billionaire,” she says. “Just think of it, Kara!” There were newspaper articles about us when we were three. They called us the “Billion Dollar Babies.”
But these Billion Dollar Babies wore Goodwill hand-me-downs. We ate dry cereal most nights for supper, right out of the box, picking out the raisins to save for our school lunches the next day. In my memory, we never formally observed a birthday, because no one around us considered that day worthy of celebration. We were worthless no accounts to most of the people in town.
But all along we had an inheritance that no one told us was ours.
I sometimes try to remember back to the days before we were three, but my memories are tainted with the lies I’ve been taught and the pictures I’ve seen. I can’t quite sift out real recollections from my faulty assumptions, but I do know that the things I’ve laid out here are true. Not because I remember them, but because I’ve studied all the sides, heard all the tales, read all the reports . . . and a few things have emerged with absolute clarity.
The first thing is that my father, Jack Holbrooke, was the son of the Paul Holbrooke, who did something with microchips and processors, things I can’t begin to unders
tand, and amassed a fortune before he was thirty. My father, Jack, got religion in his teens and decided he didn’t want to play the part of the rich son. He became a pilot instead, bought a plane, and began flying charter flights and giving lessons. He disowned himself from the Holbrooke money and told his father that, instead of leaving any of it to him in his will, he preferred that he donate it to several evangelical organizations who provided relief and shared the gospel to people all over the world.
My grandfather tolerated his zeal and noted his requests, then promptly ignored them.
My mother, Sherry, was a teen runaway, who left Barton, Mississippi, at fifteen to strike out on her own. She wound up living with a kind family in Jackson, and she got religion, too. She met my father in Jackson, when he put an ad in the paper for some office help at his hangar, and they fell in love around the time she was nineteen or so. They got married and had Lizzie and me less than a year later.
She was killed in a car wreck when we were just weeks old. Our father raised us himself for the next three years. I’ve seen pictures of him, and he looks like a kind, gentle man who laughed a lot. There are snapshots of him kissing us, dunking us like basketballs in his father’s pool, chasing us across the lawn of the little house we lived in, reading us books, tucking us in. There are three birthday photos of our father lying on the floor with two cake-smeared redheads tearing into boxes of Barbies and Cabbage Patch dolls.
Sometimes I close my eyes and think hard, trying to bring back those moments, and for a while I convince myself that they are not just images frozen on paper, but they’re live events in my head somewhere. I even think I can smell that cake and feel my father’s stubbled face against mine. I can hear his laughter shaking through me and feel his arms holding me close.
But in truth, my memories don’t reach that far back.
I don’t even think I remember Amanda. Lizzie says she has more impressions of her than memories, that the snapshots just bring those impressions into clearer focus. I guess that’s true with me, too.