Baked Goods

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In the town of Normal, Pennsylvania, there’s a little church at the corner of Wilson and Elm.  Like most churches, this one has coffee hour every Sunday after service.  The various church groups rotate responsibility for hosting.  Some, like the women’s group, bring elaborate homemade treats.  Others, like the young parents, put out a more humble spread of store bought snacks.  Most of the congregation barely notices as long as the coffee is hot and strong.  But when the men’s group hosted recently, their refreshments had unintended consequences.

Ralph Billings got blamed for the trouble.  Ralph considered himself a health food advocate.  Many in the congregation preferred the term “health nut.”  Whenever a group he was part of was scheduled to host coffee hour, Ralph would loudly lobby everyone to bring nutritional snacks.  Usually he was ignored.  Ralph would bring a heaping platter of fruits and vegetables, most of which would remain uneaten while the cookies, donuts and coffee cake others brought were reduced to plates of crumbs. 

This bothered Ralph.  So when the men’s group came up in the host rotation a few weeks ago, he hatched a plan to change things.

Choir director Shane Reed, also an active member of the men’s group, had his own agenda for coffee hours. Most of the men in the group brought store bought items if they brought anything.  Shane liked to bring something special that would surprise and delight people.

This time he decided to bring something themed toward St. Patrick’s Day, which was a few days earlier.  He found a recipe for chocolate mint cheesecake online.  It even had instructions for creating a green shamrock decoration on the top.  Shane was an excellent cook.  He wasn’t stingy either – he made two cheesecakes so nobody would be left out.

When Shane unveiled his creation to the other men while they were setting up before service, everyone oohed and ahhed jealously.  Ralph seemed to be most interested, questioning Shane at length about the recipe.  Then Ralph went away briefly and returned with an index card on which he’d written, “Chocolate Mint Cheesecake – 650 calories and 25g saturated fat per slice.”  He stuck it next to the cheesecakes.

“What’s this?” Shane asked.

“The nutritional information for your lovely desert,” Ralph said.  “I think it’s helpful that people know what they’re eating, don’t you?”

Shane couldn’t really think of a good objection, though he tried hard.  As other people put out their snacks, Ralph noted the nutritional content of each on an index card.  He got the information either from the packaging of store bought items or by consulting a big book of food statistics.  Of course Ralph’s plate of carrot sticks, celery and grapes fared best.

When the congregation poured into the social hall after the service, Missy Moore was one of the first in line.  “Your cheesecake looks gorgeous,” she told Shane.

“You’ll have to let me know how it tastes,” he said.

“Oh, I can’t,” Missy replied.  “Have to watch my waistline, you know.”  She then piled a plate high with carrot sticks and crackers.

Jill Boyer herded her daughters Mary, age four, and Susie, age two, into the refreshment line.  When Mary saw the cheesecake, her eyes got big and she reached out to swipe a finger through the shamrock decoration.  Jill grabbed her hand and said, “Mary, don’t.  I’ll get you some.”

Four year-old Sierra Smith and her father Arthur were in line behind them.  “May I have some cake?” Sierra asked. 

Arthur looked at the index card.  “I’m sorry, honey.  It’s not good for you.  Have some grapes.”

Jill’s face reddened.  Arthur had this strange ability to continually make her feel like a bad parent.  But she had already cut a piece and couldn’t very well deny her girls at this point without inducing a nuclear level tantrum.  So she cut the slice in half and split it between two plates.  She then piled carrots onto the plates and instructed the girls to eat the vegetables before the cheesecake.  They did not follow her instructions, but by then Arthur and Sierra had moved on so it didn’t really matter.

One person who didn’t care about the nutritional content of the cheesecake was Pastor Henry O’Donnell.  Unfortunately his wife Jennifer was not so blasé.  Henry was positioning the knife to cut a nice big slice when she cleared her throat behind him.  “Remember your diet,” she said.  Henry sighed and moved the knife over an inch.  Jennifer cleared her throat again.  Henry slid the knife over even further.  The wafer of cheesecake was so thin it fell apart as he lifted it onto a plate.

“Whose brilliant idea was it to set out those index cards?” Henry grumbled.

“Mine,” Ralph said proudly.  He happened to be standing near the end of the table.  “Isn’t it great?  I’m going to do the same thing with the women’s group bake sale next week.”

As word of this pronouncement spread, it was not well received.  The women’s group bake sale was among the church’s biggest mission fundraisers of the year.  With coffee hour winding down, everyone took note of how Shane’s cheesecakes remained mostly uneaten while Ralph’s vegetables were completely gone.  Obviously Ralph had succeeded in his goal.  Knowledge was power.

An informal huddle of the women’s group convened in a corner of the social hall.  There was some question as to whether Ralph had the authority to stick his nose into the bake sale.  This was countered, however, by the concern that if they tried to stop him it would look like they were hiding something.

“I guess we’d better make healthy items this year,” Missy said.  “People don’t want fattening deserts anymore.  Just look at the refreshment table.”

Seventy-year-old Henrietta Miggins, president of the women’s group, harrumphed. “We’ll see,” she growled.  She had nothing against nutrition but she was not about to let Ralph Billings control her.  She went to get a nice big slice of cheesecake to prove her point.

The next week Henrietta was not present when the women were setting up for the bake sale.  This caused considerable concern.  It was unlike Henrietta to shirk her responsibilities.  Someone was even dispatched to her house to make sure she was all right, but there was no sign of her.

After service, the congregation perused the selection of bran muffins, sugarless oatmeal cookies and low fat brownies the women had made.  Ralph was true to his word, calculating the calories and fat in each item based on the ingredients.  The results indicated that everything was indeed quite healthy, though it’s possible a few of the bakers may have fudged the amounts of butter or sugar used – inadvertently, of course.

Sales, however, were slow.  Jill’s whole wheat pineapple cake just didn’t draw the enthusiasm of the double chocolate peanut butter brownies she’d brought last year.

Missy, who was manning the cash register, muttered, “This is a disaster.”

“Must be the economy,” Ralph observed.

“Looks like Henrietta was right,” Jill sighed.  “People do prefer the unhealthy baked goods.”

Ralph decided he better do something if he wanted the nutritional information to become a regular feature of church events.  He wandered along the table loudly admiring all the items.  He stopped at Missy’s vegan pumpkin cookies.

“Only seventy-five calories each and no fat!” he exclaimed.  “And they look so good.  I’ll take ‘em.”  As soon as he’d paid, he pulled back the plastic wrap and popped a cookie in his mouth.

“Mmmmm…” he said as he chewed.  “Delicious.”  He smiled, but there were suspicious tears forming in the corners of his eyes.  He swallowed.  “So good I’m going to save the rest for later.”

Then Henrietta arrived carrying a large box.

“Where were you?” Missy asked.  “We were worried.”

Henrietta didn’t answer.  Instead, she opened the box and took out six apple tarts, twice the number she usually brought for the bake sale.

“What’s in those,” Ralph asked.  “I need to calculate the nutritional information.”

“This is a secret family recipe,” Henrietta huffed.

“But all the items for sale have their nutritional information listed,” Ralph protested.

“These won’t,” Henrietta said.

There was a murmur of excitement among the gathered crowd.  Missy asked, “How much are we charging for them?”

“That depends,” Henrietta replied.  “This year I think I’ll auction them to the highest bidder.”

That proved a brilliant move.  All the tarts went for many times their usual price.  Pastor O’Donnell paid the most – $105.00 for a single tart.  It was for a good cause, he reasoned.  In the end, the women’s group raised more total money with this year’s bake sale than ever before.

The following Sunday the young adult bible study hosted coffee hour.  There was no nutritional information provided.  Ralph was not part of the bible study and besides, after the bake sale he had been unable to find his nutrition book.

Shane Reed was part of the bible study and he brought homemade fudge.  It was gone in twenty minutes.  Pastor O’Donnell had twelve pieces.  Shane was glad there were no leftovers.  He still had an entire cheesecake in his freezer.

A note to my readers:  I have traditionally published a Little Church Story on this blog every two weeks.  From this point forward I am reducing my blog publication schedule to once a month.  This is in order for me to spend more time on other Little Church projects like The Christmas Tree Lot book.  Thank you for your support for The Little Church Stories!

O'Donnell's Dream

Hear the story read by the author.

In the town of Normal, Pennsylvania, there’s a little church at the corner of Wilson and Elm. Last Sunday afternoon Pastor Henry O’Donnell flopped into the chair in his office with a sigh. It had been a long, exhausting morning.

Nothing out of the ordinary, mind you. Ralph Billings had snored loudly through the sermon. At coffee hour Henrietta Miggins had upbraided O’Donnell for twenty minutes with her opinion of the inappropriateness of a country-western song that choir director Shane Reed performed during service. Henrietta’s lecture would have been even longer but two of the Sunday school kids knocked over the coffee urn while fighting over a cookie. And then Del Winslow and Kevin Boyer had a minor fender bender in the parking lot.

Normally O’Donnell would have spent Sunday afternoon unwinding by working in his garden. But this weekend his in-laws were visiting. If he went home he would be expected to socialize and he did not find socializing with his in-laws to be relaxing.

So he told his wife Jennifer that he needed to study for a class he was taking on church history. The church encouraged pastors to take such continuing education courses regularly to improve their skills, though as O’Donnell opened up a book on Christianity in the Roman Empire he wondered what possible relevance it could have to the duties of a modern pastor.

O’Donnell devoured a fast food lunch that Jennifer would not have approved of and began working his way through dry text describing church culture in the fourth century. And, as so often happened when he studied after lunch, he soon fell asleep. And asleep, he dreamed…

In the town of Genoa in the Western Roman Empire there’s a little church at the corner of Palm and Olive. One Sabbath morning, Pastor Odonnellcus found himself having to shout to be heard over the snores of Ralphisisus. He wondered why none of the members of the congregation nudged old Ralphisisus awake. A part of Odonnellcus worried they preferred to have the sermon drowned out.

Following service, the worshippers gathered in the courtyard for fellowship. Before Odonnelcus could reach the refreshments table old Henrietta of Miggensagna stopped him.

“Excuse me, Pastor,” Henrietta began, “I wanted to ask you about the unusual hymn Shanistotle sang today. I’ve never heard it before.”

“It is of Syrian origin,” Odonnellcus told her. “Shanistotle recently learned it from an olive trader.”

“Ah,” Henrietta mused. “And you thought Syrian music was appropriate to perform in church?”

“Syrian songs are quite popular among the youth these days,” Odonnellcus pointed out. “Shanistotle thought it might attract more new converts if we introduced some new, popular musical styles.”

“In my day,” Henrietta noted, “we did not cater to the fashions of the youth simply to fill benches. When I was a girl we risked becoming a lion’s breakfast to attend church. And we took our worship seriously. We did not expect to be entertained. We didn’t even have music, let alone strange, foreign, degenerate music. Ever since Constantine legalized Christianity the so-called faithful have become so lazy I can’t imagine the church will survive the decade. Next thing you know people will be wanting to wear casual togas to services…”

Henrietta’s rant was interrupted by a loud crash. Two of the children had knocked over a wine decanter while fighting over a date. Odonnellcus could have kissed those two delightful tykes for giving him an excuse to cut short his conversation with Henrietta – even though it appeared a rug had been sacrificed for his rescue.

Once the mess was cleaned up Odonnellcus helped himself to a plate full of dates. He loved the sweet fruit, though his wife Jenniffia would nag him about eating so many. Thankfully women in this day and age were required to obey their husbands. No wonder Rome was the greatest civilization in history.

Unfortunately his enjoyment of the dates was interrupted by the sounds of an argument outside. Odonnellcus sighed and went to see what was going on.

It seemed Kevinicus had run into Delicus’s chariot while backing his own chariot out of its parking spot. “Look what you did,” Delicus screamed, gesturing at the minor scrape. “They ought to pull your charioteer’s permit.”

“You’re the pagan jerk that parked a four horse chariot in a two horse spot,” Kevinicus shot back, pointing to two painted horse silhouettes on the ground.

“All the full size spots were taken, you liberal nut,” Delicus grunted. “It doesn’t give you the right to just ram into me like a drunken Visigoth!”

“Gentleman,” Odonnellcus shouted. “There is no need for insults. It was an accident and I’m sure Kevinicus has insurance.”

The two men looked at him with confused expressions. “What is insurance,” Kevinicus asked.

Just then, Pastor O’Donnell was awakened by a knock at the office door. Church secretary Tammy Billings stuck her head in.

“Sorry to disturb you,” Tammy said.

“That’s okay,” O’Donnell replied groggily. “I was just studying.”

“Uh huh,” Tammy said, observing the small puddle of drool on his book. “Well, it seems our Internet access has gone down. I can’t get email.”

“At least Odonnelcus never had to deal with the Internet,” O’Donnell muttered.

Tammy frowned. She liked the pastor well enough, but sometimes he just made no sense at all.

Katie's Accident

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In the town of Normal, Pennsylvania, there’s a little church at the corner of Wilson and Elm. One recent Wednesday evening Pastor Henry O’Donnell’s daughter Katie was slumped forlornly in his office. “It wasn’t my fault,” she protested.

“Just tell me what happened,” Henry said, trying not to lose his temper.

“Mrs. Miggins’ has to take some medicine that affects her eyesight so she hired me to do some chores for twenty bucks.”

“Yes, I know all that,” Henry said. “I dropped you off at her house.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure Mrs. Miggins medication affects more than her eyes because she kept telling me to feed the cat, but she doesn’t have a cat. But when I tried to explain that to her she accused me of killing the cat. So I told her I would feed the cat if she told me where the food was. She said it was under the sink but there was no food there because, you know, she doesn’t really have a cat. So finally I just made a bowl of cereal and put it on the floor by the back door.”

“Get to the part about the car,” Henry demanded.

“I am! Sheesh.” Katie rolled her eyes. “Okay, so it was about 6:45 and Mrs. Miggins said she had to get to the Trustees meeting. You were supposed to pick us up and take her there but you were late.”

“Yes, I know,” O’Donnell replied. “Something urgent came up.” He purposely omitted the details of what had delayed him. He didn’t think Katie needed to know he was late because he’d gotten into an argument with a seventeen year-old classmate of hers, who also happened to be the manager of a nearby fast food joint, over what size fries he’d ordered at the drive-through.

“Well,” Katie continued, “Mrs. Miggins was getting really upset. I tried to call your cell a bunch of times, but you didn’t answer.”

Henry had left his cell phone in the car while he went inside to debate the teenage fry dictator. “You should have waited,” he told Katie. “I would have been there soon.”

“I wanted to wait. But Mrs. Miggins was getting angry. She didn’t want to be late to the meeting. She was afraid they would vote on what color to paint the narthex without her. When she found out I have my learner’s permit, she said I could drive her in her car. I told her I didn’t think that was a good idea but she said if I wanted to get paid, I’d do it.”

“You aren’t supposed to drive without being supervised by someone over 21.”

“That’s what I told Mrs. Miggins. She said she was a lot older than 21.”

“Yes, but she couldn’t see!”

“I pointed that out to her as well. She said she would be able to hear if I did something wrong. I kind of believed her, actually.”

“Okay,” Henry said, rubbing his temples. “But Mrs. Miggins’ car is a stick shift. You don’t know how to drive a stick shift.”

“I told her that, too,” Katie replied. “She said that was a travesty and that she would teach me. She also said a lot of nasty things about you because you weren’t teaching me to drive a stick shift, by the way.”

“I’m sure she did,” Henry sighed. “Look, you clearly weren’t ready or you wouldn’t have wrecked her car.”

“First of all,” Katie informed him, “it’s not wrecked. The fire hydrant had a lot more damage than that old monster Ford Mrs. Miggins has. And second of all, I drove it very well. And it wasn’t easy, either, with Mrs. Miggins yelling at me all the time about the squirrels in the road. I kept telling her there were no squirrels in the road but she kept insisting I was slaughtering the poor little rodents. That’s the way she said it: slaughtering the poor little rodents.”

“Get to the accident,” Henry snapped.

“That’s just it,” Katie practically shouted. “I didn’t have an accident. We got to the church just fine. I parked in the parking lot but Mrs. Miggins had fallen asleep. I couldn’t wake her up so I decided to leave her there and get help.”

“So how did the car end up hitting the fire hydrant? Did Mrs. Miggins drive it away?”

“No, Dad. Apparently when you park a stick shift you can’t leave it in neutral or it rolls. And nobody told me that.”

“So the car rolled down the hill and hit the fire hydrant while you were in the church.”

“Yes!” Katie exclaimed triumphantly.

Henry sat back, jaw clenched, face red with anger. “Katie, if you ever want to get your driver’s license you need to be a lot more responsible.”

“But Dad,” Katie pleaded, “I told you, it wasn’t my fault!”

At that moment Henrietta Miggins stepped into the office. “She’s right,” Henrietta said.

“I thought you were going to the hospital,” Henry replied.

“I’m fine,” Henrietta huffed. “I was wearing my seatbelt. And there’s no way I’m going to let those trustees paint the narthex some outlandish color. Ralph Billings wanted to paint it olive, if you can believe that.”

“I’m glad to hear you’re alright,” Henry said. “And don’t worry. Katie will pay for the damage to your car as part of her punishment.”

“Nonsense,” Henrietta said. “You’ll pay for the damage to the car. It was your fault after all.”

“My fault!” Henry exclaimed.

“Of course,” Henrietta said. “Who doesn’t turn on their cell phone in this day and age? And what kind of father doesn’t teach his daughter to drive a manual transmission?”

“See Dad,” Katie said. “I told you it wasn’t my fault. It was yours.”

“Don’t back talk your father,” Henrietta snapped at Katie. Then she handed her a twenty-dollar bill. “You did a fine job today, dear. Pastor, I want you and Katie to pick me up on Friday and take me to get my car from the shop. Katie can drive me home in it. I’ll finish teaching her how to operate a manual transmission.”

“Fine,” Henry sighed. His head hurt and he didn’t want to argue. Katie was considering which would be worse – letting her Dad punish her or learning to drive from Mrs. Miggins.

Henrietta fixed the pastor with a stern gaze. “Honestly,” she said, “I don’t know how you get any work done with all these squirrels running around in here.”

She turned and stomped out of the room. Katie just shrugged to her father. There wasn’t a squirrel in sight.

Water Balloons

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In the town of Normal, Pennsylvania, there’s a little church at the corner of Wilson and Elm. One day this May summer decided to pop in early for a quick scouting expedition. By 10 am local thermometers were venturing into the eighties and Normal’s television meteorologists began planning their big stories on breaking the record high for the date.

The folks at the little church welcomed this unseasonable warmth. It had been a long and bitter winter and they were happy to leave their hats and coats and scarves and mittens at home. Thirty-seven year-old Kevin Boyer even decided to wear shorts and sandals to church, much to his wife Jill’s chagrin.

Seventy year-old Henrietta Miggins made no such concession to the heat. She was of the school that believed you dressed for church in your Sunday best regardless of the weather. She even had mixed feelings about the air conditioning that had been installed in 1985. Such attentions to comfort smacked of the Devil’s temptations to her.

Henrietta clucked her tongue at Kevin’s shorts and sandals, but she had come to expect such crassness from him. What brought her stew of disapproval to a roiling boil was Pastor Henry O’Donnell’s decision to forgo his clerical robes in favor of a Hawaiian print shirt that morning.

As for the pastor, he felt not just comfortable but downright progressive. As he looked in the mirror that morning he thought, “I am one cool clergyman.” The early warmth had put him in a particularly cheerful mood. Even Henrietta’s disapproving glare and the inevitable rant he anticipated from her at coffee hour could not dampen his spirits.

The children of the church were even more delighted by the weather than the adults. Pastor O’Donnell’s fifteen-year-old daughter Katie and her friend Tabitha had discovered a bag of balloons in the church kitchen and planned to have a water balloon fight after service. Meanwhile, Karen Winslow decided to conduct her pre-school Sunday school class, the Guppies, outside on the lawn.

Kevin and Jill’s daughter Mary was in the Guppies Sunday school class. She and the other kids were having such a good time playing outside that when service was over Karen offered to continue watching them through coffee hour. Kevin and Jill happily agreed to leave Mary in Karen’s care for a while longer.

Mary was on a quest to capture slugs from the flower garden when she saw Katie and Tabitha filling up their water balloons from a garden hose. Mary was fascinated. It had never occurred to her to put anything besides air in a balloon.

Katie and Tabitha each took two water balloons and stood back to back. They then paced off ten steps, turned and fired, as though engaged in an eighteenth century duel. Katie’s first balloon hit Tabitha right in her belly, soaking her. Tabitha’s balloon sailed over Katie’s head, bursting harmlessly on the ground. Katie fired again but missed. Tabitha wound up to throw her remaining balloon and Katie took off squealing. Tabitha pursued.

Mary had watched all this and now her eyes were fixed on a bright red sphere resting on the grass. It was Katie’s second balloon. It hadn’t burst when it hit the ground.

Mary looked over at Karen Winslow. She was occupied with Mary’s classmate Sierra who had fallen and skinned her knee. Mary walked over to the balloon. She picked it up.

It felt surprisingly heavy in her little hands. She noticed Tabitha and Katie had restocked with more balloons and were chasing each other around the yard shouting and laughing. It looked like a lot of fun to Mary. She decided to join in.

Unfortunately, Tabitha and Katie’s legs were considerably longer than Mary’s and she had difficulty catching up. And the teenagers’ duel was morphing into something more like guerilla warfare as they sought out hiding places from which to launch sneak attacks. Mary eventually lost track of where they were.

Where Katie was, was hiding behind the tool shed waiting to ambush Tabitha. She crouched, two water balloons in hand, as Tabitha stalked up the path searching for her.

Pastor O’Donnell had been watching the girls’ game from the steps leading to the social hall as he munched on a handful of grapes. The teenagers carefree romping warmed his heart. But he noticed that Katie had definitely gotten the better of Tabitha. Tabitha’s clothes and hair were drenched while Katie had only a single damp spot on her shoulder blade. From his vantage point the pastor could see the impending trap Tabitha was approaching.

O’Donnell tossed a grape at Tabitha to get her attention. Then he pointed toward the tool shed with a wink.

Tabitha grinned. She changed direction and circled around the other side of the shed. She caught Katie off guard, soaking her with two quick direct hits to the back of her head, then dashed off the other way.

O’Donnell’s view of the resulting chase was blocked by Henrietta Miggins. She strode up to him and demanded to know why he had chosen to dress so offensively. It was a bad example to set for his delinquent flock.

“Lighten up,” O’Donnell said. “There’s no rule against a pastor leading service in a Hawaiian shirt.” He probably shouldn’t have used the words “lighten up,” but he figured he was in for a lecture either way. And he was correct.

Just as Henrietta was reaching the apex of her fury, one finger jabbing into the air for effect, Tabitha bolted past behind her. And at just that moment Katie, focused only on revenge, launched one of her water balloons. Unfortunately her aim was off and it sailed over Tabitha’s head – and struck a direct hit on Henrietta Miggins’ backside.

Katie and Tabitha pulled up short. Henrietta’s mouth opened and closed as though she had suddenly lost the ability to speak. Her finger remained in the air without apparent purpose.

O’Donnell began to laugh.

He couldn’t help himself. Henrietta looked ridiculous. She regained her senses and fixed him with an icy glare. It only made him laugh harder. She shoved him aside and stalked into the social hall. O’Donnell stumbled to the ground, rolled onto his back, and continued laughing as tears ran down his cheeks.

Ten minutes later Henrietta emerged from the bathroom where she had done her best to dry her dress with paper towels. As she was heading back toward the social hall planning the withering speech she would deliver to the pastor, she noticed little four-year-old Mary walking down the hall with her water balloon and peeking into various rooms in search of Katie and Tabitha.

“Little girl!” Henrietta said. “What do you have there?”

Meanwhile, outside Pastor O’Donnell had regained his composure. As much as he enjoyed seeing Henrietta become collateral damage in the water balloon fight, he knew he had to do the responsible thing. He summoned Katie and Tabitha to him for a stern reprimand then told them to find some other way to enjoy the day’s warmth.

As they sulked away from him, a red orb flew out of an open window behind him. It hit O’Donnell square on the top of the head and burst, spilling water down over his face and drenching his Hawaiian shirt. Now it was O’Donnell’s turn to gape in shock.

He dashed into the Social Hall to find the culprit but the room was empty. Everyone was outside enjoying the weather and the balloon assassin had made a clean getaway.

Out on the lawn Karen finally located Mary and scolded her for leaving Karen’s sight. Mary took it with aplomb. She received such scoldings several times a day. She just wished she had another water balloon.

Meanwhile, Henrietta Miggins joined her friends Celia and Betsy. Betsy raised an eyebrow and asked, “did you throw that water balloon at Pastor O’Donnell?”

“Do you really think me capable of something so childish?” Henrietta snapped. But she said it with a sly smile that suggested maybe there was indeed a bit of child left in Henrietta. Neither Betsy nor Celia pursued the matter further.

Coffee hour was winding down. After all, several of the church members needed to get home and change out of their wet clothes.

Drinking Water

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In the town of Normal, Pennsylvania, there’s a little church at the corner of Wilson and Elm. Last Sunday was a big day at the church. The women’s group was having a bake sale to raise money for their mission project – providing funds to dig a well in a small village in Africa.

Jill Boyer had spent the evening before baking brownies for the bake sale. Jill’s husband Kevin and her daughters – Mary, age four, and Susie, age two – loved her brownies. But Jill was more anxious to see what the other ladies in the women’s group thought of them. For though the stated purpose of the bake sale was charitable, it was also an unspoken competition among the women. Jill knew she wasn’t adept enough in the kitchen to win this secret competition, she just hoped to put in a respectable showing.

When Jill and Kevin entered the sanctuary Sunday morning, they found a man sitting in the pew they usually occupied. He looked to be in his late forties, though his deeply tanned and weathered skin may have made him appear older than he actually was. And though he himself didn’t look particularly unclean, his clothes were old, ragged and stained; and his hair was unkempt and stringy.

There was still plenty of room on the pew – the man was alone after all – but Kevin suggested he and Jill sit across the aisle this morning and she readily agreed. The area of the sanctuary around the man proved quite unpopular. Nobody else sat in his pew – or the one behind or in front of him, either.

Seventy year-old Henrietta Miggins was the chair of the women’s group. She sat with her friend Betsy Davis in their accustomed place several rows behind the stranger. Henrietta had made three of her legendary apple tarts for the bake sale and Betsy had baked five pies. The two women studied the stranger as they waited for service to start. “I wonder how someone like that ended up in a nice neighborhood church like this,” Henrietta whispered.

“It’s sad, really,” Betsy sighed. “Bless his heart.”

Up in the chancel Pastor Henry O’Donnell had also noticed the man. Henry had not brought anything for the bake sale, of course, as it was a women’s group activity and he was of the wrong gender to participate in that way. But he was anxious to purchase one of Henrietta’s tarts. He looked forward to the bake sale every year because of those juicy, tangy-sweet tarts.

“I bet that guy’s going to want to talk to me after the service,” Henry thought as he watched the man. “He’ll probably ask for a handout or something, too. Well, he’ll just have to wait until after I buy my tart.”

Church Secretary Tammy Billing’s specialty was banana bread. She had made six loaves to sell. She was also in charge of the cash register at the bake sale. But Tammy noticed how nobody greeted the newcomer. Tammy believed that everybody – no matter how they might appear – deserved to be greeted when they came to the church for the first time. So she made it a point to intercept the man after service and introduce herself.

“My name’s Bobby,” he told her.

“Welcome, Bobby,” she said. “Would you like to join us in the Social Hall for coffee?”

Bobby said he would so Tammy showed him the way and pointed out the table for coffee and refreshments. Then she excused herself so she could prepare the cash register. She took a quick detour to the bathroom to wash her hands before joining the other women at the far end of the social hall where the bake sale was being set up.

Kevin had retrieved his daughters from Sunday school and they got in the refreshment line behind Bobby. Kevin watched as Bobby carefully plucked a single cookie from a serving platter and placed it on a paper plate.

Once Bobby had moved on to the coffee machine, four-year-old Mary reached for a cookie. Kevin stopped her. “There are two dozen of your Mom’s brownies at home that she didn’t think were perfect enough for the bake sale. You can wait for one of those.”

He got the girls some juice and carrot sticks and then went to find a pair of tongs to put on the cookie platter. As soon as he was out of sight the girls ditched the carrot sticks and helped themselves to a couple of the forbidden cookies. They were confident they would still find room for brownies when they got home.

While Jill was setting her brownies out on the folding tables she happened to look out the window and notice a tan dog lying under the bushes across the courtyard. She couldn’t make it out very well, but it appeared to be a cross between a Labrador and some kind of hound dog. She pointed it out to Tammy.

“Do you think it’s a stray?” Jill asked.

“I don’t know,” Tammy said. “I’ll tell the pastor.”

Pastor O’Donnell was standing in the line that was already forming in anticipation of the bake sale. He had rushed over as soon as he finished greeting his congregants as they exited the service. There were five people ahead of him and he wondered anxiously how many of them were in the market for an apple tart.

Tammy marched up and said, “There’s a dog out in the courtyard.”

“What kind of dog?”

“I don’t know,” Tammy replied. “But we ought to do something before any of the children go outside.”

“Okay,” O’Donnell said grumpily. “I’ll find Ralph and have him look into it as soon as I’ve bought my apple tart.”

Henrietta, who was supervising the bake sale set up, had overheard this conversation. She went to the window to see the animal for herself. It sure looked like a mangy stray to her. She spotted Bobby standing quietly in the corner sipping his coffee and tromped over to him.

“Is that your dog?” she demanded.

Bobby followed the line of her finger out the window. “No,” he replied.

“Because if it’s a stray someone’s going to call animal control.”

“That makes sense,” Bobby said. Henrietta nodded sharply and returned to her post.

Tammy announced the bake sale open for business and the tables were mobbed. In the next fourteen minutes they raised over three hundred dollars toward the African well. Jill sold three of her five plates of brownies. All of Henrietta’s tarts sold, of course.

O’Donnell cradled the box containing his tart gently in his arms and congratulated Henrietta on the fine charitable work the women’s group had accomplished. “You ladies are truly a credit to the church,” he noted.

As the crowd started to thin, Bobby shuffled over to Tammy. “Excuse me,” he said. “Would it be possible for me to get some water?”

Tammy was about to tell him that she was a little busy at the moment, but Bobby looked so meek and earnest she didn’t have the heart. She asked Jill to watch the cash register and retrieved a bottle of water from the kitchen. Bobby thanked her and shuffled off.

As Tammy was sitting back down at the cash register, Jill said, “look,” and pointed out the window. Outside Bobby was approaching the dog. He crouched down next to it and poured water from the bottle into a paper cup. The dog lapped from it thirstily.

Tammy went outside. “I thought that wasn’t your dog,” she said.

“It’s not,” Bobby replied. “According to the tag it belongs to someone named Mona. There’s a phone number here.”

Startled, Tammy came closer. Through the window she hadn’t even noticed the dog’s collar, which was almost the same color as its fur.

Tammy dialed the number on her cell phone. It turned out Mona was thirteen and lived two miles away. Her dog Winston had gone missing two days before and she was very excited to hear that he’d been found. She said she’d be right over.

Bobby handed Tammy the empty plastic water bottle. “You know, these aren’t very good for the environment,” he said. Then he went inside and bought the fourth plate of Jill’s brownies. Jill gave him the last plate as a gift. He protested, but she assured him she had plenty at home.

Mona was reunited with Winston twenty minutes later. Nobody at the little church ever saw Bobby again.

Baby Music

Hear the story read by the author.

In the town of Normal, Pennsylvania, there’s a little church at the corner of Wilson and Elm. Church member Carrie Winslow recently gave birth to a baby boy named Scott. Last Sunday she and her husband Carlos brought Scott to church for the first time.

Carrie was not known for her punctuality, but this Sunday morning she made sure to leave extra early. Having a newborn meant every trip took roughly three times as long as it had before and she didn’t want to disrupt the service by entering in the middle.

Thanks to her foresight, she wheeled the stroller bearing her bundle of joy into the sanctuary seven whole minutes before service was scheduled to start. Carlos staggered behind, loaded down with close to a dozen bags of baby accoutrements that together weighed half as much as a small automobile.

Young Scott Winslow was greeted like a rock star by several of the women of the church. Associate Pastor Michelle Tellum was the first to run up, squealing in delight.

Michelle was twenty-eight and loved kids. Every time she saw one her biological clock started spinning like a merry-go-round. She crouched down in front of the stroller and began making nonsensical cooing sounds.

Missy Moore, a bubbly forty-four year-old single woman, soon joined her. Jill Boyer crowded in next to them. Jill had two daughters of her own. After each was born she swore she would never have another child. But the sight of an infant dispelled all recollection of those vows and she started dreaming about how nice it would be to have another baby of her own.

Seventy year-old Henrietta Miggins passed by the crowd. She paused only briefly to note the cause of the commotion before moving on to her seat. Henrietta was not the kind of person to get caught up in the sort of rock star fervor Scott had engendered.

Carrie watched the chorus of cooing women for a few minutes. Finally she cleared her throat and said, “Well, I better get seated. Service is going to start soon.”

That reminded Pastor Michelle that she was actually leading service that morning. She rushed up the aisle toward the pulpit. However Henrietta intercepted her ten yards from the chancel. “May I have a word, pastor?” Henrietta said.

“It’s time to start the service,” Michelle protested.

“It’s actually one minute past time,” Henrietta replied. “However I think you ought to tell that Winslow girl that babies do not belong in church.”

“Oh, I disagree,” Michelle said. “Children need to feel welcome here or they won’t come back as adults.”

“Babies are a distraction,” Henrietta huffed. “When you’ve had a little more experience you’ll understand.”

Michelle felt her blood boil at the dig but had no time for an argument. “We’ll discuss this later,” she said, then dodged around Henrietta and up into the chancel.

Meanwhile, Carrie, Carlos and Scott had set up camp in the last pew on the left hand side of the sanctuary. They picked that location because that was where Carlos had collapsed under the weight of the baby gear.

The back left section of the church proved popular that morning. Jill and her husband Kevin secured seats at the right end of the pew just in front of the Winslows where Jill could peer into the stroller by leaning back slightly.

“Isn’t he cute?” Jill said to her husband.

“Sure,” Kevin replied. He actually thought the baby looked like some kind of overcooked turnip. It wasn’t Scott in particular – Kevin thought all babies resembled vegetables more than humans. But he had learned to keep that particular view to himself ever since a certain three-day argument he and Jill had shortly after the birth of their daughter Susie.

Michelle managed to get the service started only four minutes late. Scott slept through most of it, waking up just as Michelle launched into her sermon. About a minute later he began to fuss. The fussing was loud enough that Carrie thought she better take the baby outside.

Up in the pulpit Michelle saw Carrie getting up. Michelle glanced down at Henrietta who had a smug I-told-you-so smile on her face. The smile annoyed Michelle a lot more then the fussy baby.

“Carrie, you don’t have to leave,” Michelle said. Carrie looked up, startled. “Please, stay,” Michelle continued. “Babies’ cries are like the music of life. And let’s not forget that Jesus said, ‘let the little children come to me’ when He was teaching.”

Carrie sat back down and Michelle continued the sermon. Carrie tried rocking and bouncing Scott, but his cries just grew louder. Michelle increased her own volume to match. Meanwhile Henrietta’s smile grew more and more smug.

As appreciative as Carrie was for Michelle’s kind words, she thought even the music of life could grow tiresome at this volume. She started to get up again, but Michelle caught her eye and shook her head sharply. Carrie sat back down.

Scott continued to explore the power of his little lungs. Slowly the crowd around Carrie began to shift away from her, cramming into the far ends of the pews. Eighty-six year-old Donald East turned off his hearing aids. Henrietta simply enjoyed watching Michelle shout desperately into the microphone.

Michelle wrapped up her sermon early – not because of the baby, she told herself, but because they’d gotten a late start. As soon as Michelle announced the closing hymn, Carrie bolted for the door with Scott. The entire congregation breathed a sigh of relief.

By the time everyone adjourned to the Social Hall for coffee hour, Scott was happily dozing again and his entourage of admirers had returned.

Kevin collected his daughters Mary and Susie from Sunday school. They came up to the Social Hall to find Jill holding little Scott with a look of bliss Kevin had not seen from her in a long time. Susie ran up to her mother waving a piece of paper.

“Mommy, mommy,” Susie shouted, “look what I made!”

Jill felt Scott start to squirm in her arms and quickly shushed Susie. “I’ll look later. I’m holding Carrie’s baby right now.”

“Come on, Susie,” Kevin said. “Let’s go get some juice.” Susie shuffled off with him to the refreshment table, then found a spot on a couch next to Henrietta Miggins.

“Where’s your mother?” Henrietta asked sharply. She didn’t care for the company of toddlers any more than she did the company of infants.

“Holding the baby,” Susie replied. “I don’t like it.”

“The baby?” Henrietta asked.

“Yes,” Susie said.

“Me either,” Henrietta grunted.

“Want to see the picture I drewed?” Susie asked.

“Sure,” Henrietta said. Despite her aversion to toddlers this one didn’t seem too bad. Susie handed her the drawing and an unfamiliar warmth grew in Henrietta’s seventy-year-old heart.

Then Susie spilled her juice down the side of Henrietta’s leg.

The following Sunday Carrie took Scott directly to the nursery.