"Call the preacher, he's the only one to reach her, and there ain't
no time to lose." Country singer Martina McBride's slightly irreverent
tune strikes a chord with me. When life grows chaotic, ministry morphs
into headaches, or dreams turn into nightmares, call the preacher.
I did and felt slighted by the initial response.
"Dr. George Robertson's first available opening is next month, Gaye.
If we need to get you in sooner, perhaps we can arrange a phone call?"
Preferring a face-to-face meeting, I waited my turn. When that day
arrived, I made one mistake. I told my husband about the appointment
over breakfast.
Jim dropped his fork and looked up with a devilish grin. "We okay? You're not going to report me or something, are you?"
I reached over and squeezed his hand. "Course not. It's my ladies'
Bible study. These women have huge needs, and I have few resources. I
just felt the senior pastor ought to know what's going on. I've been
waiting weeks to see George."
Jim went back to breakfast. "Uh huh. You know these hash browns are great, honey."
I frowned. "Uh huh? What do you mean by that? Fess up. You don't think meeting is a good idea, do you?" Continue at Gaye Clark
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