By Amy Butler
In my opinion, one of the scariest people in the world of a young pastor is the head usher at her first church. This I can pretty much verify by my experience with Edna May Reynolds.
To look at her you wouldn’t think she was all that scary. Edna seemed, in fact, like a very nice little old lady, hair perfectly coiffed as if she had just left the beauty parlor, pearls perched securely on her earlobes, busy as she could be fussing over the candles before every worship service. I learned soon after beginning my pastorate at Calvary, however, that the word of Edna Reynolds, age 87 and longtime captain of our usher team, held a level of gravitas not ascribed to many around here.
The reasons for this were all quite understandable: worship must run smoothly, and she was there to make it happen, come hell or high water. The altar cloth would be placed perfectly straight; the Bible pages smoothed absolutely flat; the candle holders polished bright, sporting two candles of exactly the same height; the candle-lighting usher poised and ready to march as soon as the first notes of the prelude escaped the organ. Thanks to Edna’s meticulous care, the sanctuary was prepared for worship every single Sunday.
I knew Edna managed all of these important tasks, and I appreciated her commitment. Then came my first Christmas Eve at Calvary.
With the enthusiasm of youth I planned the service, sure to include Edna and her ushering team in my plans. We all thought it was a great idea to sing “Silent Night” and light candles, as they had at Calvary every year in recent memory. Edna explained that it was her privilege every year to welcome her grandsons home from college to perform the sacred ritual of the Christmas Eve candle lighting.
The service unfolded as it always had in my previous church, where we all got up and made a big circle and then lit our little candles around the circle. After the service was over and we were cleaning up and getting ready to go home, Edna came marching up the aisle, smoke coming out of her ears. She curtly explained to me that I had done the whole candle-lighting ritual wrong. Turns out, at Calvary there was no big circle; instead, two candle lighters (Edna’s grandsons) always walked down the aisles and lit the candles at the end of each pew. Fuming, Edna said: “This is not the way we do Christmas Eve at Calvary! We’ve never done it this way before!”
Needless to say, it was a somber Christmas Eve for this young pastor. Two days later, I trudged back into the sanctuary to prepare for Sunday morning worship. As usual, Edna was fussing over the candles, preparing the altar for worship. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her begin her determined march down the aisle toward me.
Cringing, I waited.
“Amy,” she said, “I thought about what I said to you after the service on Christmas Eve. It was wrong. Only old people who don’t like change say crazy things like what I said to you. It was your first Christmas Eve as our pastor, after all! There was no way you could have known how we were used to doing things around here. Seems to me if the way we always did it before was so important to me, I should have told you. And, anyway, I am sure you have new ideas that you want to try out … we brought you here to shake us up! I’m sorry for what I said.”
Then she turned on her heel and marched back up the aisle to continue worship preparation.
I, on the other hand, stood there speechless, jaw on the floor, holding back tears.
Edna died last week. She’s been so frustrated the last year that her health wouldn’t allow her to usher any more, or even get to church to “supervise” our new ushers as they try to fill her very big shoes. But her eyes always twinkled at the latest news about developments down at church — especially, it seemed, when I was busy “shaking things up.”
Today I want to say, Edna, I miss you; honestly, I have for awhile. Thank you for the faithfulness you showed by preparing us for worship every week all those years you were head usher. Thank you for the courage you showed in embracing change in all its discomfort and unfamiliarity. And, thank you most of all for taking this young preacher by the hand and helping me find the conviction to walk with this congregation into whatever our future holds. You practically scared me to death, but I will never forget you.