“Where am I?” he begged.
“Waiting for judgment,” came the kindly reply.
“So I’m dead?” No answer was needed and none came. “What are my chances?”
“Why don’t you tell me? What did you do with the days you were trusted with?”
He wandered through memories and balanced a sea of good done for him against very little done by him.
“I think I’m going to have to rely on Divine mercy.”
“True,” replied the gentle voice. “But that won’t bypass the question.”
“I was never any good at telling people about Jesus; though that’s maybe just an excuse. I only worked in the nursery once. I didn’t like it—I guess that means I didn’t do any foot-washing. And ... Brother Harold always managed to make people welcome: I never tried.”
“Tell me about Brother Harold.”
“I wish I’d been more like him. He had a good word for everybody, and a smile, and had enough people over to his backyard picnics over the summers to fill a small town. His name wasn’t on the sign outside, but without him there’d have been no church to speak of. It was like Jesus was welcoming everybody; both old friends and strangers.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
“Or Janet. She could be hard to get along with sometimes, but nobody worked harder for the kids in her neighborhood. And Tom. Just a hint and he’d be there with a van full of tools, and the latest teenager he was teaching the trade to, and they’d work for hours on a car or a roof.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“And through the years there were the preachers and deacons too, but not me. It seems all I did was complain about the budget shortfall and discourage people. But Sister Ellen was always so encouraging—she’ll pass the test OK, won’t she?”
“You can be confident in the judge.”
“Promise me she’ll make it? She was so good to everybody.”
“Rest easy.”
And faintly in the distance he heard a woman’s voice saying “I never really thought things out; I just jumped in without thinking and made a muddle. It’s a good thing we had Brother Bob to keep us real. He’ll be there, won’t he?”
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