One church we performed an evening concert for had their restrooms in a separate building from the main auditorium. Before the concert, I headed across the parking lot to the ladies’ room. I thought Ron was with Kevin, but he’d followed me, waiting outside the door.
It was crowded that night, so I had to stand in line. I hadn’t even taken my turn yet when the racket started:
“Mommmyyyy! Are you in there, Mommmy? Can you hurry up, please?”
I didn’t want to lose my place in line by opening the door to tell him hush, so I just counted the specks in the tiles on the floor, pretending to feel sorry for whoever’s little blessing was outside hollering. I prayed that the line would speed up or Ron would shut up. Neither did. By the time I was ready to leave, my blood was boiling.
An older lady stared back with a shocked expression. “No, I don’t.”
“Oh I’m so sorry,” I said, my cheeks hot. I didn’t even try to explain, just rushed out to find my little circus barker turned Houdini. I found him around the corner of the building where he’d conveniently slipped seconds before. As I ushered him across the parking lot, I delivered the Mom’s lecture #34: Unless you are bleeding or the house is on fire, do not interrupt me when I’m going potty. Especially if I’m in a public restroom with fourteen other ladies.
Although we travelled and sang over fifteen years and performed hundreds of concerts, I always wanted our ministry to reach farther afield.
One day I was lamenting to the Lord how small a difference I felt we made in His Kingdom. I wanted to be Sandi Patti and Michael W. Smith with the Von Trapp Family Singers. Comparison never leads anywhere holy, so the Lord stopped me with his gentle voice in my heart.
“Jeanette, yours is a ministry of encouragement. You may not perform a glamorous program, but your songs give hope. How important is the gift of hope when you’re discouraged?”
“Oh, Lord, I’d give my right arm and elbow for a glimmer of hope when I’m ready to quit.” Then He reminded me of a concert we’d sung a few weeks before.
In the back row sat a forty-ish man who gazed with unblinking eyes the entire thirty minutes we sang. His face was a rock. I wondered if we were getting through to this brother at all. Still, I sang my heart out for the Master, pouring my voice onto His altar.
At the end of the concert, Mr. Brickface came to me. With tear-filled eyes and cracking voice he said, “I want to tell you how much your ministry encouraged me. I am bipolar. Your music lifted me to Heaven tonight. Thank you so much for coming to our church and singing.” His words showed me that our ministry, although not worldwide or flashy, was touching lives and helping people find a ray of light for their darkened lives.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jeanette Levellie is a pastor's wife, mother, grandmother, prolific writer, speaker, and servant to three cats. You can find her humorous/inspirational musings at Wings of Mirth and Worth.