Of course, I wouldn't have admitted it to anyone, but I felt very proud and important that morning as I taught our adult Sunday school class, eagerly outlining some of my new and profound thoughts on prayer.
Just as I reached the conclusion of the lesson, my husband Gordon quietly slipped out of a chair in the back of the classroom to go out in the drizzling rain to help direct traffic in the parking lot.
Afterward, when I'd finished accepting compliments from class members, I went to the lobby to meet Gordon for church. I was surprised to see him in his orange traffic vest sitting on a bench with his hand pressed against a bloody handkerchief on an elderly gentleman's forehead.
The man was wrapped in a blanket and a first-aid kit was open on the floor. Two doctors from the church were kneeling on the floor and someone else was calling EMS. I sank down on a nearby bench, feeling useless.
After EMS had declared the man shaken but otherwise fine, Gordon told me what had happened.
"I was near him in the parking lot when I heard him fall. He must have slipped on the wet pavement. I remembered my Boy Scout first aid and pressed my handkerchief against his head and tried to determine whether it was safe to move him."
I noticed a bit of blood on Gordon's hand and felt humbled. How often had I secretly and silently ranked the jobs in our church, putting Sunday school teacher on a higher plane than parking lot attendant?
"Thank God you were there," I said. And as we walked into the sanctuary together, I thought, lesson learned.
Dear God, thank you that every way we serve is important to your kingdom.
