22 Pollyanna - Read By Stephanie Poppins

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Chapter 22 Sermons and Woodboxes On the afternoon,

Pollyanna told John Pendleton of Jimmy Bean,

The Reverend Paul Ford climbed the hill and entered the Pendleton woods,

Hoping that the hushed beauty of God's out-of-doors would still the tumult that his children of men had wrought.

The Reverend Paul Ford was sick at heart.

Month by month for a year passed,

Conditions in the parish under him had been growing worse and worse,

Until it seemed that now,

Turn which way he would,

He encountered only wrangling,

Backbiting,

Scandal and jealousy.

He had argued,

Pleaded,

Rebuked and ignored by turns,

And always and through all he had prayed,

Earnestly,

Hopefully.

But today,

Miserably,

He was forced to own that matters were no better but rather worse.

Two of his deacons were at sword's point over a silly something that only endless broodling had made of any account.

Three of his most energetic women workers had withdrawn from the Ladies' Aid Society because a tiny spark of gossip had been fanned by wagging tongues.

The choir had split over the amount of solo work given to a fancied preferred singer,

And even the Christian Endeavour Society was in a ferment of unrest owing to open criticism of two of its officers.

And all this had sent the harassed minister to the quiet woods for prayer and meditation.

Under the green arch of the trees,

The Reverend Paul Ford faced the thing squarely.

To his mind the crisis had come,

Something must be done and done at once.

The entire work of the church was at a standstill.

The Sunday services,

The weekday prayer meeting,

The missionary teas,

Even the suppers and socials were becoming less and less well attended.

And because of all this,

He understood very well that he,

The church,

The town and even Christianity itself was suffering,

And must suffer more and less.

Something must be done.

But what?

Slowly the minister took from his pocket the notes he'd made for his next Sunday sermon.

Frowningly he looked at them.

His mouth settled into stern lines.

It was a bitter denunciation.

In the green aisles of the woods,

The minister's deep voice rang out with scathing effect.

Even the birds and squirrels seemed hushed into awed silence.

Woe unto you scribes and Pharisees,

He read.

For you pay tithe of mint and aniseed and come in and have omitted the weightier matters of the law.

These ought ye to have done and not to leave the others undone.

His people,

They were his people.

But could he say this?

Dare he say this?

It was a fearful denunciation even without the words that would follow.

He had prayed and prayed.

He'd pleaded earnestly for help and guidance.

He longed to take in this crisis the right step.

But was this the right step?

Slowly he folded his papers and thrust them back into his pocket.

Then with a sigh that was almost a moan,

He flung himself down at the foot of a tree and covered his face with his hands.

It was there that Pollyanna,

On her way home from the Pendleton house,

Found him.

Oh,

Oh,

Mr Ford,

She cried.

You haven't broken your leg or anything,

Have you?

The minister dropped his hands and looked up quickly.

He tried to smile.

Oh,

Cried Pollyanna,

Falling back a little.

That's all right then.

You see,

Mr Pendleton had broken his leg when I found him.

But he was lying down.

You're sitting up.

Yes,

I'm sitting up and I haven't broken anything that doctors can mend.

The last words of the minister were very low.

But Pollyanna heard them and a swift change crossed her face.

Her eyes glowed with tender sympathy.

I know what you mean.

Something plagued you,

Doesn't it?

Father used to feel like that lots of times.

I reckon ministers do most generally.

You see,

There's such a lot depends on them somehow.

The Reverend Paul Ford turned a little wonderingly.

Was your father a minister,

Pollyanna?

Yes,

Sir.

Didn't you know?

I supposed everybody knew that.

He married Aunt Polly's sister and she was my mother.

I understand.

But you see,

I haven't been here many years,

So I don't know all the family's histories.

Yes,

Sir.

I mean,

No,

Sir,

Smiled Pollyanna.

There was a long pause.

The minister,

Still sitting at the foot of the tree,

Appeared to have forgotten Pollyanna's presence.

He pulled some papers from his pocket and was unfolding them.

But he was not looking at them.

He was gazing instead at a leaf on the ground a little distance away.

And it was not even a pretty leaf.

It was brown and dead.

Pollyanna felt vaguely sorry for him.

It's a nice day,

She began hopefully.

For a moment there was no answer.

Then the minister looked up with a start.

What?

Well,

Yes,

It is a very nice day.

And it isn't cold at all either,

Even if it is October.

Mr Pendleton had a fire,

But he said he didn't need it.

He was just to look at.

I like to look at flies,

Don't you?

There was no reply this time,

Though Pollyanna waited patiently before she tried again.

Do you like being a minister?

Do I like?

What an odd question.

Why do you ask that,

My dear?

Nothing,

Only the way you looked.

It made me think of my father.

He used to look like that sometimes.

Did he?

Yes,

And I used to ask him,

Just as I did you,

If he was glad he was a minister.

And what did he say?

He said he was,

Of course,

But almost always he said too he wouldn't stay a minister a minute if it wasn't for the rejoicing text.

The what?

Well,

That's what father used to call them,

Pollyanna laughed.

Of course,

The Bible didn't name them that,

But it's all those that begin be glad in the Lord or rejoice greatly or shout for joy,

All that,

You know,

Such a lot of them.

Once when my father smelt especially bad,

He counted them and there were 800.

800?

Yes,

800 that told you to rejoice and be glad.

That's why my father named them the rejoicing texts.

Oh.

There was an odd look on the minister's face.

His eyes had fallen to the words on the top paper in his hands.

But woe unto you,

Scribes and Pharisees and hypocrites.

And so your father liked those rejoicing texts,

Did he?

He murmured.

Oh yes,

Nodded Pollyanna emphatically.

He said he felt better right away,

That first day he thought to count them.

He said if God took the trouble to tell us 800 times to be glad and rejoice,

He must want us to do it some.

And father felt ashamed he hadn't done it more.

After that,

They got to be such a comfort to him,

You know,

When things went wrong.

It was those texts,

Father said,

That made him think of the game.

He began with me on the crutches,

But he said it was the rejoicing texts that started him on it.

And what game is this?

About finding something in everything to be glad about.

As I said,

He began with me on the crutches.

Then once more Pollyanna told her story.

A little later,

Pollyanna and the minister decided to descend the hill hand in hand.

Pollyanna's face was now radiant.

She loved to talk,

And she'd been talking now for some time.

There seemed to be so many things about the game,

Her father and the old home life,

That the minister wanted to know.

At the foot of the hill,

Their ways parted,

And Pollyanna went down one road,

Whilst the minister went down another.

In his study that evening,

He sat thinking.

Under the suspended pencil in his fingers,

Lay sheets of paper,

Blank.

But he was not thinking either of what he had written before,

Or what he intended to write.

In his imagination,

He was far away,

In a little western town,

With a missionary minister who was poor,

Sick and worried,

But who was poring over the Bible to find how many times his Lord had told him to rejoice and be glad.

After a time with a long sigh,

He roused himself,

Came back from the far western town,

And started to write.

A father one day said to his son Tom,

Who he knew had refused to fill his mother's woodbox that morning,

Tom,

I'm sure you'll be glad to go and bring in some wood for your mother.

Without a word,

Tom went.

Why?

Because his father showed so plainly he expected him to do the right thing.

Suppose he'd said,

Tom,

I overheard what you said to your mother this morning,

And I'm ashamed of you.

Go at once and fill that box.

I'll warrant that woodbox would be empty yet,

So far as Tom was concerned.

What men and women need is encouragement.

Their natural resisting power should be strengthened,

Not weakened.

Instead of always harping on a man's faults,

Tell him of his virtues.

Try to pull him out of his rut of bad habits.

Hold him up to his better self,

His real self,

That can dare and do and win out.

People radiate what is in their minds and their hearts.

If a man feels kindly and obliging,

His neighbours will feel that way too.

But if he scolds and scowls and criticises,

His neighbours will return scowl for scowl.

When you look for the bad,

Expecting it,

You will get it.

When you know you'll find the good,

You will get that.

Tell your son Tom you know he'll be glad to fill that woodbox.

Then watch him start and get going.

The minister dropped the paper and lifted his chin.

In a moment he was on his feet,

Tramping the narrow room back and forth,

Back and forth.

Then he drew a long breath and dropped himself in the chair at his desk.

I'll tell all my Toms I know they'll be glad to fill that woodbox,

He declared.

I'll give them work to do and make them so full of the very joy of doing it,

They won't have time to look at their neighbours' woodboxes.

Thus it happened that the Reverend Paul Ford's sermon the next Sunday was a veritable bugle call to the best that was in every man and woman and child that heard it.

And its text was one of Pollyanna's Shining 800.

Be glad in the Lord and rejoice,

Ye righteous,

And shout for joy,

All ye that are upright in heart.