The Invitation
© 2001 by Frederick Graves
It was late morning and too hot to sleep, anyway. A policeman tapped Fred on the feet with a night-stick. "Time to get up, yer majesty," he ordered.
Carefully, Fred gathered the newspapers that had been his blanket on the park bench and pitched the bundle into a nearby trash can. He stretched his arms like the antennae of a nervous insect, stomped the sleep from his legs and feet with a little staccato dance, and walked off along the winding concrete path that led to the heart of town.
"Only four hours to go," Lydia reminded the gardener, "and so much to do!"
"Yes, mum," the servant replied. "Will you be wanting flowers in the hall?"
"Oh, dear me, yes!" Lydia answered. "There must be flowers. Daffodils and tulips. Lots of them! Everything must be perfect!"
"I'll see to it, mum," the gardener respectfully assured her.
"Thank you," Lydia absently responded. “Now where is that window washer?" She turned from the gardener as if he weren't there and walked briskly across the wide expanse of tended lawn. Brilliant, white furniture dotted the thick green carpet of neatly mown grass. A large yellow sun hat flapped its brim above her gaunt features as her eyes flashed this way and that, checking each area, noting each need, hunting the servant who must clean the bird baths and scrub the slippery moss from the smooth slate paving stones of the northern walkway. Hoops and stakes were placed for croquet with the strictest precision. Near them an umbrellaed cart held brightly colored balls and mallets. All was ready.
"Two o'clock! Oh, dear me. Two o'clock!" Lydia muttered to herself. "How will I ever be prepared?"
A small man walked up behind her. A huge ladder was balanced on his right shoulder and a large bucket hung from his left hand. "Have you been looking for me, Missus Apple?"
"Yes, yes!" Lydia answered, turning about quickly. "The baths are a disgrace, the northern walk is simply treacherous, and I'm late for church. You really must see to these things, Perkins. They'll be here in four hours, and we must be ready."
"Will there be anything else, ma'am?"
"No, no. That should keep you quite busy until I get back."
"Yes ma'am," the little man replied obediently, and each of them turned from the other. Lydia hurried toward the garages. The little man deftly swung his ladder in the opposite direction and walked away like a tiny picnic ant under his massive burden.
Lydia shifted nervously in her pew. Her pew. She had always sat there. Her family had used that pew for years. Now that her husband had passed away and the children were grown, Lydia sat in the varnished space - fifth from the left, right-hand side -- all by herself.
It irritated her that such a man could be admitted to the building, bare the thought that he should have been seated next to her.
Why, the very idea!
"Excuse me, ma'am. Is this space taken?", Fred asked. Lydia smiled an unconvincing smile. Fred sat down and glanced uncomfortably around the sanctuary. The organist's fingers danced across the keyboards, creating the intricate fugues and harmonies that lured Fred in from the lonely, noise-scorched streets. As the music soared, Fred's spirit was lifted beyond the rags he sat in.
Lydia sat frozen in a silent forward stare.
Fred didn't mind. He came to hear the music ... melodies and counter-melodies, diverse sounds side-by-side, independent notes in harmonies, separate spirits singing as one ... music for God.
"Our Lord and Heavenly Father, ..." Silence hushed the room. Heads bowed.
Awkwardly, Fred looked down at his hands of gnarled fingers, broken nails and knuckles scarred from long-forgotten barroom battles.
"We beseech Thee our God, by the Grace of Thy Promises, that Thou would bless this hour to Thy Glory, to the strengthening of Thy Spirit within us, and to the Honor of Thy Son, our Savior and Eternal Hope."
"Perhaps he'll leave," Lydia thought hopefully.
"Now's my chance," Fred thought, hoping to sneak out before the plate was passed and before the sermon could begin.
"Number three-hundred-thirty-seven," the pastor's friendly voice resounded. "Will you stand?"
Fred glanced furtively to his left as a young couple with two small children filled the pew. Lydia’s floppy yellow hat blocked him on the right. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and an elderly gentleman in the pew behind handed him an open hymnal.
"Our faith looks up to Thee," they sang together, "Thou Lamb of Calvary, Savior Divine."
Fred's eyes followed the windows -- each a portrait of some Bible hero he had long ago forgotten. There was Abraham and Isaac on the mountain top; Moses by the Burning Bush; the young Christ teaching in the temple; and the Risen Christ, walking a rocky hillside path with bare, pierced feet, His hands held out before Him, the prints of nails inspiring wonder in the simple country folk who bowed in adoration as He passed by.
"Since the fall of Adam," the preacher began, "our Heavenly Father has yearned for His people to love Him. He sent His Son, Jesus, to die at Calvary so we would know God's Love -- and He is waiting now for lost souls to surrender their pride and receive the Miracle of a new self, the Mystery of the Indwelling Christ. The Bible tells us Jesus seeks entry into our hearts. 'Behold,' He says, 'I stand at the door and knock.' Will you ask Jesus to come into your heart today?"
Clouds passed through the beams of sunlight that pierced the colored panes of the stained-glass picture of the Risen Jesus. Patterns shifted. Colors faded and returned again with radiance and a new reality. The sacred scene began to move, to come alive. The mournful eyes looked down on Fred, the scars no longer leaden chips of glass but wounds through hands of flesh and bone.
Fred stared up at the window.
"Jesus wept," the minister continued. "A man of sorrows, the Bible tells us, He was without sin, innocent of any crime. Yet He was betrayed, imprisoned, beaten, spat upon, and nailed to an old wooden cross where he was left to die alone. Soldiers gambled for his clothing while He hung from those cruel nails until that last breath of life escaped His body, and Jesus died."
Fred searched for the soul of the stained-glass image, and a sense of wonder touched his heart.
"The body was removed from the cross and sealed in a guarded tomb. A massive stone covered the entrance, and soldiers stood watch day and night. Within the tomb, a lifeless body lay."
An icy chill shivered through Fred's body.
Lydia’s features were completely hidden by her wide-brim floppy yellow hat.
"But God!" the preacher shouted in joy, "By that Great Mercy wherewith He loves us, reached into the silent tomb to breathe life afresh within the Body of Our Christ, and Jesus arose victorious, having conquered death itself through Love!"
Fred squirmed. His eyes flashed to the pulpit, riveting on the speaker. The preacher's eyes, soft as the eyes in the window, powerful as the prints of the nails, looked directly at Fred and gently whispered, "For you."
A momentary silence ... then the preacher's glanced moved on.
"How long will you struggle under the cruel burden of guilt and pride? How long will you walk through life all alone?" Fred studied the polished railing at the front of the choir loft, the gold candlesticks, the arch of shiny organ pipes.
"Wouldn't you like to be free?"
Fred's gnarled fingers worked with the hymnal he held on his lap.
"Have you a friend as true as our Jesus?"
The chill returned like icy fingers struggling to freeze his heart into stone.
"Ask Jesus to come into your life today! Ask God to forgive, and eternal life and joy beyond measure will be yours."
Something deep within broke free, like the heavy cargo of a storm-tossed ship. Fred struggled to hold on as his mind whirled.
"Before our Savior ascended into Heaven, He assured us with these words, 'Let not your hearts be troubled. I go to prepare a place for you, that where I am there you shall be also.'"
Fred wondered in amazement.
"We believe He is coming again, and we invite you to join us as we place our lives in God's hands and in His service. Do you believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of the Living God?"
"I do," Fred's lips moved silently.
"Come forward now. Walk down these aisles and confess before the people here assembled that you do believe, and God will honor His Promise of abundant life both now and for forever."
Fred's legs twitched, his feet shuffled, and Lydia, her eyes hidden by the brim of her floppy yellow hat, looked down at the pair of scuffed and well-worn shoes. Fred bowed his head enough to almost see the face that hid beneath the hat and then looked up again at the preacher's gracefully flowing robe, the glowing hand-rubbed pews, the towering stained-glass windows ... and Fred remembered the horrified expression on the lady's face as he first seated himself. She was staring at his shoddy, shuffling feet and ragged trousers.
"Come forward as we stand to sing together number two-hundred-thirty-three."
Lydia’s yellow hat faced rigidly forward.
As the organist played the people stood and began to sing “Just As I Am".
Fred stood with them, sidled to his left, smiled at the two small children, bowed to the young mother, and said, "Excuse me," to the man on the end of the pew, paused just a moment as he reached the aisle as if uncertain which way to turn.
Then Fred walked slowly toward the preacher who waited at the front with a welcoming smile.
The music stopped.
The preacher asked, “Do you believe in your heart that Jesus died to purchase the forgiveness of your sins and that He has prepared a place for us who believe to live eternally with Him when our struggles here are through?”
“I do,” Fred answered. “I truly do.”
A tear of unexplainable joy made a tiny path down Lydia’s powdered face.
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