I have pastored our little church here in Ashtabula for twenty-six years, and I know every one of my Sunday school children by name and by heart. Little Rebecca used to be the first one out the door to her mama every week, coat half on, hollering goodbye. But these last few months she lingers till the very end, helps me stack the folding chairs, gathers up the hymnals, asks is there anything else needs doing, just to keep from leaving. And her father waits out in the car for her every single Sunday and never once comes inside. Just sits out there in the lot, waiting.
I have buried and married and baptized this whole congregation for a quarter century, and you learn to see a child. A little girl who dawdles at church is not always a girl who loves the Lord house. Sometimes she is a girl who does not want to go wherever comes next. And Rebecca had gone from a bright, giggling thing to a quiet one who watched that parking lot out the window with something I can only call dread.
This one Sunday, after everyone else had gone and she was still shuffling those chairs, I knelt down to be eye to eye with her and asked her gentle why she was not in any hurry to get home these days. She glanced out at her father car, hugged that hymnal tighter, and whispered that her mama worked Sundays now, so she had to ride home with just him, and that when they were alone he got angry and rough with her, worse than he ever was with Mama in the house, and that she was scared of the whole long drive.
Eight years old, and stacking my chairs was the last safe minute of her week.
A pastor is not above the law that protects children. He is bound by it, same as any teacher or nurse, and thank God for that. I did not send that baby out to the car. I kept her with me on a gentle excuse, and I made the call I am required and honored to make, and I got her mother on the phone, a woman who worked two jobs and had no idea what happened on those drives because her girl was too scared to tell her.
The mother came straight to the church. The two of us, and the people whose job this is, made sure that little girl did not ride alone with that man again. He answers now for what he did, and the court sees to it that Rebecca is safe.
I kept hoping if I helped you long enough, Sundays would just never have to end.
That is what she told me, and I have preached a thousand sermons and never said anything truer than that child did.
Her mama changed her hours. Rebecca is the first one out the door again now, coat half on, hollering goodbye, running to a car she is not afraid of. And I stack my own chairs these days, and I thank the Lord every Sunday that a little girl trusted a tired old preacher enough to whisper.