Doing God’s work in wind-swept places.
As my wife and I sat by the pool of our Southern California apartment, she reminisced about how much she enjoyed the tiny town where her grandparents lived-some place in Eastern Colorado.
“Bethune, Colorado!” I said. “Come on, honey, you’ve got to be kidding.”
Something in my gut told me poking fun of such “out-of-the-way places” was dangerous. After all, God seems to have a special place in his heart for the tiny and the so-called unimportant.
I had grown up in the heart of Southern California. On perfect summer days at college, my buddies and I used to sit outside the school library and laugh at the possibility of being called to some windswept place like Kansas or North Dakota-the old “I’ll go anywhere you want me to, Lord, just not Africa” syndrome.
Yes, the cool spray of the waves crashing beneath Newport Pier and the endless Southern California summer allowed no room for thoughts of ministering in Podunk. Those who ended up in such places were there because they couldn’t land the “big jobs” in the cities (or perhaps they got a C in Hebrew).
The cramped outback
That was a few years ago.
Now as I write, I’m listening to the “outback” wind howl through the cracks in the stained glass of our tiny white church. No, I’m not in Bethune, but close: I’m in Burlington, Colorado, within spitting distance of Kansas. One quarter of our congregation calls Kansas home. The New York Times calls Burlington, “a flat spot near the Kansas border and not much else.”
Here my family and I now live-far away from the pounding surf. Here in Burlington another way of life exists the way it has for almost 100 years. Here little girls can still walk to school free from fear. Folks can leave their keys in the car (even downtown). The local dog catcher will personally deliver your dog to its backyard if it gets out during a thunderstorm. Here the mayor calls me by my first name, and people get together just to get together.
And everything in Burlington is centered around the weather. And anybody at any time can tell you the price of wheat. And people know that so-and-so had supper with so-and-so, and kids ride their bikes down Main Street every time there’s a parade. And in Burlington we’re forced by sheer necessity to deal with our neighbor.
We visit Aunt Mary’s second cousin’s nephew, not because he goes to our church, but because it’s the neighborly thing to do. We don’t complain to the local grocer if there are no bananas because he may help the bowling team win tomorrow night. Everybody is somebody in Burlington, and the really big somebodies aren’t too big to stop and chat.
Kids to corral
So why are we here?
Not just because I’ve always wanted to wear cowboy boots, or because driving a truck through the mud to an elders meeting is lots of fun. We’re here because we believe we’re doing a significant work for the Lord.
Several months ago, I corralled a group of key people and suggested we start an AWANA program, an outreach ministry for boys and girls.
By the response I got, you’d think that I’d asked them to shave their heads and ride bareback on their cows. Even so, a handful of folks got behind our AWANA program and worked like spiritual farmers hoping for a harvest of souls one day. Three months after the program began, twenty children made professions of Christian faith.
I’ll never forget that night. We simply gave an invitation, and one by one those little people made their way to the front. That was eleven months ago. Today all of those kids still attend our AWANA meetings and are growing in the Lord. That’s exciting!
Small talk about big issues
I’ve discovered that hurting country people are not into “sharing feelings.” They don’t call for counseling appointments. (For that matter, they never call for anything. They just drop by. If one of the members “just happens” to be in town to get a machinery part or has a little extra time, I put down whatever I’m doing and “jaw” awhile.)
On one of these occasions, a farmer friend dropped by, and we went out for lunch. On the way we stopped at the farm implement dealership. My friend chatted with the mechanic about his tractor that was in for repairs, and I wandered around the garage. Several minutes later Greg returned biting his lower lip. The “minor repair” would set him back $2,000. Like most small farmers, the bank owns everything, and even a good used tractor runs anywhere from $30,000 to $70,000. That’s big money even where I come from!
When we jumped into his muddy pick-up, Greg said, “I don’t know how I’m gonna keep my place together.”
I broke the heaviness by suggesting he go to seminary. He liked that, and then we both laughed. My humor didn’t solve his problem, but he knew he wasn’t in the situation alone.
One side note about rural ministry: in order to be successful out here, you’ve got to be good at small talk. Though for me small talk is difficult, I’m learning. Not being able to buy a Slurpee without getting into a conversation oftentimes makes me wish I could go to one of those suburban malls and wander anonymously through the stores without someone calling my name.
But that’s okay. From 1-70, the interstate that runs by our small town, Burlington doesn’t look like much. But lots of ministry is happening and lots more is left to do in Burlington, a significant place I’m glad God chose me to pastor.
-Dan Edmondson
The Evangelical Free Church
Burlington, Colorado
108 SUMMER/93
Copyright © 1993 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal. Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.
