Pastors

"Pastor, it's getting a little cold in the children's choir room. Do you suppose we could meet in one of those downstairs classrooms during the winter months?" Sandi Fawkes inquired.

Mere administrative detail, I mused. I knew half of the forty-five youngsters in her choir represented nonchurch families. It was a good outreach, and Sandi was an enthusiastic worker. I made a quick executive decision. "Why don't you move into the big room in the corner? You'll like the carpeting, padded chairs, and good piano. We don't use that room on Thursday nights."

"Oh, wow! Thanks, Pastor Steve," Sandi beamed. "I knew you'd figure it out for us."

Why, my dear, I thought to myself, that's what a pastor is for.

Sunday, just before the morning service, a subdued Sandi came up and whispered, "I guess we've got trouble."

"What?"

"I mentioned to Margaret Greenly that we planned to use the big downstairs room for choir, and she hit the ceiling."

"Why?" I stammered.

"Something about that being a preschool room, and ...

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