I attended your church this morning. You wouldn't remember me . . . I may be
eleven or eighty . . . but I was there and I was hunting for something. I
would have found it if you hadn't been in such a hurry.
The choir . . . even you in the congregation . . . sang hymns about a loving
Lord that made my heart beat faster. I felt a tight, choking sensation in my
throat as your pastor spoke about the condition of a lost person.
"I am lost. He is talking about me." I said to myself. "From the way he
speaks, being saved must be very important. I looked at you in the pews next
to me. You were listening. You seemed to think that the pastor's words were
important. "All these people are so concerned," I thought. "They want me to
be saved, too."
At last the minister finished his appeal and asked you to stand and sing
another one of those songs you knew so well. I swallowed a lump in my throat
and wished I knew the joy you sang. Then your pastor looked at me and started
telling me once again how I could have this joy, but his words were drowned
in the buzzing inside of me.
When I glanced around, you were putting on your little girls' coat and
telling her to get her things. I looked on my other side and saw you putting
on your lipstick and touching up your hair.
Looking in front of me, I saw you frown at your watch as if time were running
out. Suddenly, I didn't want to look at any more of you . . . my eyes burned
and my throat hurt . . . my feet were so tired that I didn't want to walk
towards the pleading preacher. You really didn't care. This salvation the
pastor had been telling us about was not important. You didn't care that I
was lost . . . you only wanted to get away.
I wanted to get away, too. I wanted to run, but was afraid that if I did, you
would wonder what I was running for. I waited until the service was over and
walked out among you, alone . . . lost!
By Christine Beacon