Bridge to a Distant Star - Carolyn Williford [89]
Several “a-mens” reverberated across the room; many came from administration and faculty members in the first two rows.
“Now, let’s stop a moment. I’m going to ask for a show of hands.” Coleman leaned forward over the pulpit, symbolically getting as close to his listeners as possible. Hearing a stirring again, Michal glanced around and was surprised to note how many consciously—or subconsciously?—responded by leaning toward him. “How many of you are MKs?” He raised his own right arm, holding it straight above.
Some jerked their hands up immediately, proud to be singled out. Others were more hesitant, not wanting the attention, like Michal.
“And how many of you were fortunate enough to go to a Christian boarding school so your parents could remain on the field?” Coleman’s arm remained upright, and it appeared that nearly everyone who responded earlier kept their hands up also. Michal’s was among those, but she could feel her heart pounding. Her face flush red.
“Now this time I don’t want you to raise your hands. Instead, I want you to answer this question in your heart. I challenge you to consider it later in your prayer or journaling time, will you? But here’s my question to those of you who went to boarding schools: Your parents made incredible sacrifices to go where God called them. Are you thankful for that?”
Michal stared down at her Bible, eyes unfocused, seeing only blurred words.
“Let me state that again: Your parents made sacrifices. Yes, you made sacrifices. But to what end? So the unsaved could hear the gospel. And young people, that’s good reason to give up so that others may receive, is it not?”
Coleman paused dramatically. Waited patiently for the effect. He wasn’t disappointed, for a lone listener was heard clapping. Cautiously, others joined in. And then it became awkward for the rest—Michal included—not to applaud, for the clapping built and grew, spreading throughout the auditorium like an infection.
Coleman continued hammering his points, going nearly ten minutes over his allotted thirty; Michal caught snatches of his voice and then sporadic applause, even laughter a couple times. But she actually heard very little of his message. Her attention kept drifting to Ethiopia, and what she heard ringing inside her head: the lilting, animated Amharic language of the people she so loved.
Rustling around her—everyone was reaching for hymnals—finally signaled chapel’s end. Michal hadn’t heard the page number, so she peeked over at her neighbor. “Send the Light.” But of course, Michal thought, allowing herself a slight smile.
After the benediction, a few worked their way to the front of the auditorium, eager to speak with Reverend Coleman. Most crowded toward the doors, intent upon escape—whether to the library, a class, the snack bar, or merely to get out.
Michal had just stepped outside when she felt the slightest touch at her elbow.
“A lot of that was pure crap, huh?”
Horrified, Michal looked up to see who dared utter the words. It was Allistair.
“Allistair. What are you—?” Michal glanced around to see who was near. Who might’ve overheard. She whispered, “What are you talking about?”
“The chapel speaker. I’m not arguing against us going to the mission field. ’Cause I fully agree we should all become missionaries—but to wherever we are. You don’t have to go to a foreign country to be a missionary. But the part that really ticked me off? Laying the guilt on some of those poor kids who went to boarding school—and had a lousy childhood because of it.” Allistair’s eyes sought Michal’s. “I’m sure your experience was great, but others?” He shook his head, vehemently. “I have a good friend who—”
Michal interrupted, almost in a panic. “I think we’d better talk about this some other time, Allistair, since I’m running late. See you later, okay?” She nearly sprinted away from him, regretting she’d agreed to see him the next evening. I can’t go with him to the game, she thought, berating herself for submitting