It was a rough night for Kahalui Church of the Nazarene. 60 students sat on the floor of the church which for the first time in years was packed wall to wall. There before us stood a woman, the pastors wife. Her long black hair swung about her as her body followed her thrashing arms pointing madly from her open bible to the powerpoint.
"Every time you go without telling your friends about Jesus you're telling them to just 'go to Hell!'"
Everyone was crying...except of the seniors who glared from the back row, watching they're younger siblings cry.
we were in it.
I walked out side, praying with everything I had that something good could come of this. I slunk around the dark halls of the Sunday-school, looking for an escape from the hate which screamed out of loud speakers.
I found myself before the door I hadn't gotten around to until now. A piece of construction paper with the words "Prayer Room" were scrawled with a crayon and hung crookedly on the open door. Inside was about as inviting, apparently it was the preschool room and was furnished accordingly. Nazarene curriculum printouts and tear outs were hung around the wall--jeez I hated that stuff... Crayons sat in the middle of a giant kiddy table which took up almost the whole room.
I sat down at on of the proportionality challenged chairs, my legs unable to fit anywhere were forced in all directions. I sat there for a moment running my hands through my hair. I wanted to cry, or scream, or do something! Everyone wanted to do that much, but what?
I thumbed around in my bible, hoping something would happen--keep my mind off--comfort--entertain? Nothing seemed to be happening and after considering a read in a few darker prophets I gave into the call of the box of crayons next to me.
A little while later someone darkened the door. He was older than middle aged, salt and pepper hair grew in a frizzy ring from ear to ear, leaving a white freckled circle on top. His face, I can't really remember, rather average, and a neglectful amount of stubble nearing a beard. He was in legitimate pastoral attire, at least deacon/saint/offering-guy material.
Sitting down on the far side of the table, he opened his own warn bible. Out poured a collection of church bullets and odd papers, most filled with scribbled notes. He lovingly cleared the pages, uncovering the KJB text bellow. I'm afraid I started to stare as he read, thumbing from book to book, chapter to chapter. Every once in a while would pause reading a moment and then closing his eyes he would take a deep breath, rocking back and forth slightly he would often whisper, "thank you Jesus."
Carefully he took out a pen from his shirt pocket and, after a quick search, found an unused paper to write on. He jotted down a few references all with their own "thank you Jesus." After a time he seemed to awake. He looked across the table kindly, reminding me that I had stared.
"Will you give this to pastor Bob? He has been on my mind." He said, his voice was slow and deep, with a slight quiver. I took the paper and he stood, leaving me and the room.
As I left to find my pastor (Bob) I knew I would remember that night.