It would have looked like the old guard blocking the young pastor’s wife on her very first real project.
The exact story every struggling little church is terrified of. Old women clinging to the stove while the whole congregation dies out from under them.
We’d watched two other small churches in our county split clean in half over smaller things than a sign-up sheet. We weren’t willing to be the reason Zion became the third.
So we untied our aprons. And we didn’t fuss.
And we told ourselves that was humility. Some of it even was.
What it cost us, we didn’t tell anybody either.
Wanda’s husband, LeRoy, died nine years ago. That kitchen was the only place left in town where Wanda still laughed out loud.
Eunice’s eyesight had gotten bad enough that she’d quietly stopped driving at night. Tuesday morning kitchen prep was one of the only times left in her week when somebody still needed her for something besides a ride.
