Earlier this month, I graduated with my Master’s degree in ministry after beginning my undergraduate studies 20 years ago. As I approach the last full year of my thirties and with time’s gathering to glory of more and more family and friends in recent years, it seems like a good moment to reflect as the calendar page turns yet again. This photo fell out of an aging album a few weeks ago during Thanksgiving festivities, and in looking at my younger self, it seemed like a story come full circle.

I am sure this shot was taken at a Vacation Bible School decades ago (probably around 1990 or so), and my first thought was that Mrs. Johnnie Bell Webb would have been at her post passing out Kool-aid and cookies in the fellowship hall. Paper plates overflowing with her signature saltines and peanut butter would be stuffed into our mouths as we bolted from crafts to playground and back again.

Mrs. Johnnie Bell passed away a few weeks ago, but I realize more and more that she was one in a long lineage of unsung heroes who form the mortar that holds the church tight and together without being singled out for praise.

I have been blessed to be able to spend my life sharing Jesus with others for many years now, and I am grateful for each opportunity, but I know too well that much of the Christian influence in my own life came from those faithful believers who showed up after work to glue popsicle sticks, who spent their Saturdays draining baptisteries, and who cooked countless casseroles to feed the grieving and the lonely.

The church is a body with many parts, yet we who stand week to week on platforms and in the pulpits often get a disproportionate amount of the praise. More than ever, I am coming to see that the quiet, committed disciples who show up and do whatever is needed are among the church’s greatest strengths. 

In Christ’s kingdom, there is no greater honor than to be, as He was, the servant of all.

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