I never knew who was behind the flowered curtains. But I knew someone was there. I could tell by the way the material was twitching.
I hoped that whoever it was couldn’t see me. And just to make sure, I tried to make myself invisible by shrinking further down behind my dad’s legs. When that didn’t work, I simply hid behind my hymn book, and only lowered it when it was time to trudge to the next corner.
I was here under duress. Given the choice, I would much rather be climbing the laburnum trees that hung over our driveway, or bouncing around dangerously on my pogo stick, or lying on my bed reading my latest Schoolfriend comic. Yet here I was, standing on street corners, singing hymns with four of my seven siblings while my dad, in his loud preacher’s voice, invited all who would pass by, and all who would hide behind curtains, to come to our small village church.
My mum and dad and their eight children must have been an answer to prayer for that little congregation. We were a ready-made Sunday school, with a preacher, teacher, and evangelist rolled into one.
Not even the British rain could dampen my dad’s enthusiasm. Sunday after Sunday, he would drive around the neighborhood and load up our car with a rag-tag bunch of children who jostled on knees and hung out of windows until the doors burst open and kids spilled out into a tiny church to hear about a man called Jesus.
Day after day, my dad stepped out from the pages of the Book he believed in to become the person of the parable; the shepherd of the sheep, and the sower of the seed.
And this I learn: we are called to be people of the parable; shepherds of the sheep; sowers of the seed.
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Because even though that tiny church will never open its doors again;
even though my dad now sits, unable to walk…
somewhere out there is someone who knows about Jesus because of what he did.
And somewhere out there in this big old world is someone who believes in God because they peeped through a flowered curtain to spy on a little singing band in the street.
And now, I’m proud that I was part of it.
It is marvelous stories like this that creates character, stamina, and a willingness to follow Jesus.
I am sure there is some child from those days who will always remember the words that your Dad spoke and all that they experienced has indeed affected their lives. The Word does not return VOID.
Blessings & Peace
So true Annie! Bless you for commenting!
awwwweee, such a sweet post. and yes, it only takes one person for improve, change – for the better – our lives. even today, while we were eating our breakfast, ste mentioned our rag tag fixings. did he use that word because your post/ words left a mark, peeping here at your blog. true be told, i had to ask him what it meant. was not a word i commonly use.
That’s funny Nat, that ‘rag-tag’ was a new phrase to you! I think you are the ONE that changed my son’s life for the better 🙂
I absolutely love this post! For me, it was a man at the door. I was the teenager on the inside who prayed that God would send someone. He did. Thanking God for your dad, you kids, and your faithfulness. You’ll know why and who in heaven!
Let me know when you post the story of the man at your door Joy!