WET BEHIND THE FEATHERS

By Rebecca Barlow Jordan

 It was our first Sunday at the new church. The ink was barely dry on my drivers’ license, and it would be a year before we signed the marriage license. Yet here we stood in the great West Texas metropolis of Lillyville, eyeing with awe and reverence our new place of ministry. We were two college students in love, ready to change our world—all 200 people in it—according to the last town census, plus a few stray dogs and cats.

 “Shall we?” asked Larry. I felt like a timid Moses, trembling before the crossing of the Red Sea. We were a handsome duo—he in his city slick suit, and I in my sun yellow coat, hat and heels. I smoothed some feathery hair strands, wore my best smile and pushed through the massive church doors. Had we known then what the next few years would bring, we might not have been so eager to cross the threshold.

 The church itself sat at the end of a long, graveled road dotted with a few houses all leaning a little too far to the left. The building looked like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. It could have passed easily for “The Little Brown Church in the Vale”—with a new white paint job, that is.                      

 The modest church had been adorned with most of the essentials, except for indoor bathrooms. Hardwood floors, a hefty pulpit, a couple of classrooms and a lone piano that must have belonged to someone’s great-grandmother were its meager assets. I sat down to play a few notes and counted seven keys that stuck—estimating the last tuning must have taken place at least years ago. A few dozen wasps flew around the lights, ready to dive bomb an unsuspecting enemy in the pulpit directly below.  Long, rich, walnut pews lined the church in even rows. And there above the piano hung the Monument of Monuments: the Church Attendance Banner. I quickly noted the last recorded attendance: Sunday morning: 25. Sunday night: 7.

 Just then, a 90-something, feisty, wisp of a woman stepped through the doors. She propped her bony hands on her hips, looked right at Larry and asked him a no-nonsense question; “Are YOU the new pastor?”

 “Yes, Ma’am. I guess I am.”

 “Why, you’re just a kid!” she said, creaking across the floor until she found her spot on the back row.

 Larry and I quickly gave each other a “what-have-we-gotten-ourselves-into look.” We were both still wet behind the feathers. I felt totally unprepared for this new leadership role. Even though I’d grown up as the daughter of a minister, I was completely without confidence in this new “wife-of-a-preacher” role I was about to play. Miss Gordy wasn’t helping matters. She gave new meaning to the term “irregular person,” and could easily have won a significant place in The Guinness Book of Most Unusual Church Members.

 We soon discovered that Miss Gordy took a dim view of “forgettin’ the offerin’ takin’.” If Larry failed to pass the plate at the appropriate time, Miss Gordy would move to the aisle, stand directly in front of  the pulpit, and while my husband preached his best Billy Graham sermon, she’d jingle her coin purse until an embarrassed farmer-deacon started the plate around.

 Because of our long commute back and forth to school, those dear church people of Lillyville took us under their wing each Sunday.  Mostly farmers, they literally “put on the bird” for us. We dined in converted barns, large ranch kitchens and everything in between. One Sunday we even “caught” our own fish dinner when the host had nothing to feed us. But every cook, (including Miss Gordy), stirred up “blue ribbon” fare.

 After a year of weekly commutes to the church on the weekends, Larry and I married, and the people fixed up the parsonage for us so we could stay over on Saturday nights. One weekend, we were walking “downtown” (“downtown” being one restaurant, a gas station, and a faded, red brick post office) when we heard a loud commotion behind us.

 "Look out…Oh, Lordy!” someone yelled. “Here comes Miss Gordy!"

 We looked up in time to see ou local senior daredevil gunning her 1955 Plymouth in reverse down the old highway—straight toward us and the post office. Even having a disabled forward gear couldn’t stop Miss Gordy. We dove for cover and narrowly missed a shower of flying bricks as she backed full speed into the corner of the post office. Nothing—absolutely nothing— deterred this strong-willed widow.

 During the three years we stayed at the church in Lillyville, we had an interesting ongoing tug-of-war with Miss Gordy. She loved to decorate the church with flowers. But the first time we saw her “Bud” (or was it Michelob?) vase perched on the piano, I chucked the bottle (anyone inspecting the trash migh have assumed they had a real problem preacher on heir hands) and exchanged it for a simple flower vase. The next Sunday her “Bud” vase of flowers appeared again. Realizing we’d never win this battle, we agreed to allow Miss Gordy’s novel “Bud” vase a position on the other side of the piano.

 But nothing topped the challenge of Miss Gordy’s Christmas mission offering—large bills rather than her usual nickels and dimes, signaled an exercise in sacrificial giving from her sale of scrap iron. It wasn’t until we discovered that tools, plow sweeps, and other farm implements had disappeared  mysteriously from community farms that we realized Miss Gordy meant to see that she wasn’t alone in her “sacrificin’.”

 After our years with Miss Gordy, we knew we could handle anything—or anyone, and our confidence grew. Larry conducted his first funeral in Lillyville. I taught my first adult Bible class. We introduced people to our loving Father, and many embraced Him openly. We even completed the church’s first building program: which included the installation of venetian blinds and two indoor bathrooms. (Can anyone say “Hallelujah”?) We endured wasp stings, freezing pipes, “no-show’s,” snores, and so much fried chicken, we thought we’d grow feathers.

 Those dear people in Lillyville believed their main mission in life was to give awkward preacher boys a place to squawk and talk their way through college. They offered their homes, their hospitality, their friendship, and a generous $35 a week salary. They endured the immaturity of a couple of city chickens—kids who didn’t know much except that they loved Jesus, and they loved people—even irregular ones. Maybe that’s all that really matters.*

 “The Lord said to me, “Do not say, ‘I am only a child.’ You must go to everyone I send you to and say whatever I command you. Do not be afraid…for I am with you…” declares the Lord.”

                                                                                                            Jeremiah 1:7-8 NIV

You can read the rest of the stories I wrote in Courage for the Chicken Hearted, and Eggstra Courage for the Chicken Hearted. They’ll give you lots of insights into the life—of this minister’s wife—as well as the humorous world of the “hens” who penned the other stories in these books. Click Here to order!

*Rebecca Barlow Jordan, Excerpt from Courage for the Chicken Hearted, Humorous & Inspiring Stories for Confident Living, © 1998, Becky Freeman, Susan Duke, Rebecca Barlow Jordan, Gracie Malone & Fran Caffey Sandin. All Rights Reserved.