I will call her Nan. She
was a beloved member of a church I served decades ago—a woman whose quiet
faithfulness left an imprint far larger than her frail body ever could. Over
the years, her health declined in ways that were painful to witness. Her once‑nimble
hands had grown gnarled, twisted so severely she could no longer hold a pen.
Her legs, which had carried her through a lifetime of ordinary days, had
weakened until walking was no longer possible.
Still, when I was her pastor, Nan came to church whenever a
caretaker could bring her. She arrived in her wheelchair with a gentle smile,
the kind that seemed to say, I’m still here. I still belong.
Most days, though, she lay in her small bedroom—her world reduced
to the glow of the television and the soft rumble of passing cars outside her
window. Yet even in that quiet confinement, Nan carried a spirit that refused
to dim.
I visited her regularly—not only because it was my pastoral duty,
but because I genuinely enjoyed her company. Nan had a way of making
conversation feel like a warm quilt: simple, comforting, stitched with
sincerity. She enjoyed the visits too; they reminded her she was still part of
something larger than her room, larger even than her suffering.
One afternoon, as our visit drew to a close, I prayed with her and
then said, “Nan, the ministry of our church is better because of people like
you. Thank you for what you do for our church.”
She looked at me with utter disbelief, her eyes widening as though
I had spoken something impossible. Then she asked, “Pastor, what can I do for
the ministry of the church lying in this bed?”
Her question is one many hearts whisper. Perhaps you are not
confined to a bed like Nan. Your hands may still be steady; your legs may carry
you through your day. Yet you may still wonder what you can offer to the work
of Christ and His Church. Maybe you feel your talents are small, your education
limited, your resources modest.
But consider this: what if a shepherd boy named David had believed
a sling and a few smooth stones were too insignificant to face a giant? What if
a widow had decided her two small coins were too meager to place in the temple
offering? God has always delighted in using what the world calls small.
Now, the rest of Nan’s story. When she asked, “What can I do for
the ministry of the church lying in this bed?” I told her gently:
“Nan, first—you can pray. You can lift our church, its people, and
me as your pastor before the throne of God. Second—you can call people. Pick up
your telephone now and then and check on someone who is lonely or hurting. They
will be blessed by your voice, and you will be blessed because love always
strengthens the one who gives it.”
Her face softened. Purpose returned to her eyes. Even from her
bed, Nan discovered she could still serve the Kingdom.
And so can you. There is always something each of us can do for
the work of God—no matter how fragile our health, how limited our abilities, or
how modest our finances. The Kingdom has never depended on perfection; it has
always depended on willingness.
What are you doing for the Kingdom in these days? May your week be
joy‑filled and your heart encouraged.
—Pastor Randy Wall
