Memories of My First Pastor

When I contemplate the people
 God has used to touch my life,
I’m reminded of a gray-haired man
and his sweet, quiet wife.

Each Sunday he would stand to pray
and then begin to preach.
And though he wasn’t eloquent,
I loved his halting speech.

He opened up the Bible
as he made those stories live.
I still can smell the loaves and fish
that boy was prone to give.

He’d shake hands with the grownups
after church when they would go.
And he would call us kids by name
and say, “You’re great, you know!”

Some nights he’d show up at our house
for coffee and to talk.
Or sometimes he would phone to share
a need within the flock.

Though not a theologian
with a long list of degrees,
my pastor grew in wisdom
as he spent time on his knees.

He could comfort folks at funerals
and at weddings he would cry.
When he counseled those in trouble,
he would listen, nod and sigh.

I learned from that dear man of God
that faith is clearly caught
when those who see the truth lived out
can trust what they are taught.

As I look back my heart is filled
with gratitude and joy
for one who led our little church
when I was just a boy.

That godly man and his dear wife
have long since passed away.
But since they led me to the Lord
I’ll see them both someday.