| Sunny Side Up! August22, 2001 �2001, by Kathleen Gibson You�re Only as Good as Your Word My daughter Amanda loves to sing. So when she was recently invited to be the guest soloist at an out-of-town gathering of churches, she was ready to chime her agreement before the invitation finished zipping through the phone wires. Then she remembered. She�d already promised to be a substitute pianist for a tiny local church on the same day. �I�ll get back to you,� she said. Then she fretted. �I don�t want to leave the church without music. How could I do that? But I really want to go sing.� So she tried�unsuccessfully�to find a substitute for her substituting. �What should I do?� she moaned. It would have been simple to call the little church, tell them sorry, but something had come up and she wasn�t able to come. After all, there�d likely be less than twenty people there on a hot summer morning. They could sing without the piano for one Sunday. By the next, they would have forgotten. It looked like an easy choice, but I didn�t tell her that. I was remembering my father�s story. After graduating from high school in the late 1940�s Dad worked as a farm hand in northern Saskatchewan. He�d applied for a teaching position but had heard nothing. Late August, harvest was already underway when a long black Monarch turned into the field, drove over the stubble, right up to the workers. A man in a suit unfolded from behind the wheel, mopped his forehead with a white handkerchief and asked to speak to Ben. �That�d be me,� said Dad. �Heard you�d make a good teacher,� the fellow commented, wiping the handkerchief across the back of his neck. �I�ve got a one-room school empty in Carrot River. We�ll train you, you�d start right away, and there�s a place for you to stay.� Dad looked around. The wheat in that field was already combined, almost all stooked. But harvest was just beginning. It would take a few weeks to finish. �Well sir,� he said without hesitation. �I promised this man I�d help him get his crop in. So I guess I won�t be a teacher this year.� Just like that. The black Monarch drove off the field, the golden opportunity blew away like the chaff from the old International Harvester, and Dad never did become a teacher. He finished the harvest, later took his chances out west, met my mother and �well, you can guess the rest. Amanda was grinning when I finished the story, like she knew something. That weekend the little church had thirteen people present, and a cheery young thing at the piano. Even if she�d rather have been singing. Keeping one�s word is seldom easy, not always convenient, and increasingly rare. It should be the trademark of a Christian, but I know that I can do better. I guess I needed the reminder as much as my daughter. You can respond to this column at [email protected] |