Ordinary People and Other Stories

Stony stood with his friend, Jim Lighthouse, at the rear of a small town church in west Texas. Jim and Stony had driven from El Paso three hundred miles along the dry Texas-New Mexico border. It was Stony’s first visit to this parched country. He was a New Yorker with the usual New Yorker’s attitude that this was country where sand and cattle are dominant and culture is unknown.

Jim would preach to this little congregation in the morning. If the people approved him, he had agreed to serve them for six months. Stony was a priest of the high church variety who protested often to Jim in a light-hearted way that it was only half church to read a lesson, sing songs, give a speech and a prayer and go on your way.

Now, as they stood inside the church looking forward to the altar, Stony was unusually complimentary. “I must say, it does have some possibilities: nice altar, dark wood everywhere. It could be conducive to some kind of worship.”

It was Jim’s turn to be negative. “But look at the sad old easy chair at the end of the aisle. I get the impression some old codger, who has to be coddled, sits here on Sunday and falls asleep after he’s put his handsome offering in the plate.”

“A very understandable scenario,” Stony laughed, “but a bit cynical, my dear friend. The chair is a disaster, but don’t jump to conclusions.”

Jim and Stony stayed in town that night. They arrived well before the service was to begin the next morning and had a chance to visit with some of the early arrivals. Jim noticed Stony at one point in earnest conversation with a distinguished looking man whose rich mustache curled around his face in the fashion of RAF flyers during the Second World War.

“Did I say ordinary people?” Stony whispered before the service began. “The man I was speaking to is a world-renowned archaeologist. I just finished reading a book of his.”

The service began with Jim introducing himself from the pulpit. A small choir had taken their seats across the chancel, facing him. Jim had experience with small choirs in country churches and prepared himself for something less than good music. To his surprise, however, this choir began the service with a beautifully rendered introit. Jim looked at the director as he took his seat and nodded with a smile.

As Jim announced the Bible reading for the morning, he noticed a slight commotion at the rear of the church. Two ushers were guiding a severely crippled woman through the entrance. They led her to the faded easy chair at the foot of the main aisle. ‘Strike one against me’ Jim thought as he began his reading. Jim wondered if Stony had witnessed the scene.

At the conclusion of the service Jim uttered a benediction on the chancel steps before he walked down the aisle to the entrance where he intended to greet the people as they left the church. As he passed the frayed chair he lifted his hand in greeting to the woman who sat there. He noticed her gray hair, perfectly combed, and the kind, direct gaze with which she appraised him. She reached out her hand as Jim joined the group. “I’m Mary Wright,” she said. “Thank you for your sermon.”

“Thank you,” Jim responded, his usual response to the polite comments he received after the service.

Mary Wright was helped from her chair by two of the men who stood beside her. As they led her out of the church one of the ladies standing beside Jim said, “She’s a wonder; in her seat every Sunday. Did you know she drives her own car with hand controls? She’s an inspiration to us all.” Jim was sure she must be. He resolved that if they wanted him to come for six months, she would be the first call on his list.