Pastor Shay came to Zion eighteen months ago.
He was young and earnest, fresh out of seminary in St. Louis. He was the first called pastor we’d had in eleven years, after old Pastor Ohlrich finally retired at seventy-nine because his hip gave out climbing the chancel steps.
Our congregation had shrunk the way these little country churches shrink. Forty families down to twenty-two.
The call committee prayed over it for months. Then they voted to bring in somebody young. They hoped a young family in the parsonage might bring other young families back.
Pastor Shay brought his wife, Tamra.
She was twenty-nine. Bright and busy and full of ideas.
For the first year, she mostly left the kitchen to us. She helped out on some Sundays. She learned our names. She learned that Eunice takes her coffee black and Marge can’t eat onions.
Then, in September, she went to a church conference in Lincoln. Something about revitalizing small congregations.
And she came back with a binder.
I don’t say that to make fun of her. I’ve come to believe that binder came from a good heart that just didn’t know this town yet.
One of the sessions, she told the church council later, was about volunteer burnout. About how churches run their most faithful people into the ground. The same handful of people doing the same unpaid work for decades, until they quietly die or quit, and the church has built nothing that outlasts them.
She looked at five women in their sixties and seventies, climbing up and down the basement stairs with roasting pans at six in the morning.
And she saw burnout.
She didn’t see what my friend Sharon Lindqvist would have seen in about thirty seconds. Sharon used to dispatch for the county sheriff before she retired. She told me later, over coffee, exactly what she’d have seen.
Five women who had never once complained. Never once asked to be let off. And who would have told you right to your face that carrying a roaster down those stairs wasn’t a cross they were bearing.
It was a gift. And they were glad to give it.

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