My pastor, I will not forget,
and wasn't my first choice,
to lead my favorite gospel hymns
with his low, raspy voice.
He couldn't seem to keep a beat
or hit a single note.
He once admitted to us all,
he sounded like a goat!
At times, the sermon, he'd forget.
Sometimes he'd drop his cane.
Some thought he was a special man -
and some, a bit insane.
Though he was sometimes questioned by
his well-intentioned peers,
a wisdom came to flourish from
vast Bible-reading years.
He often had a part-time job,
yet seemed to be around,
to answer all my crazy calls
with questions more profound.
Although he eased my fears and pain,
he had fears of his own.
Because we never heard complaints,
his ills were rarely known.
He sometimes lost his glasses and
the new announcements too.
His pocket watch would sometimes stop.
He fell a time or two.
His clumsiness was obvious,
He spilled his water cup.
Though Satan tried distracting him,
he never did give up.
So preach, he did, each Sunday morn,
through babies cries or cough.
He'd speak awhile and then some more,
'till grandpa dozed right off.
His speech would race, emotions great -
he'd tell us of God's Son,
who had to die to save the lost -
for me and everyone.
Once grandpa 'sawed his logs' quite loud.
Who knew what grandpa dreamed?
Yet pastor never missed a beat
and futile preaching seemed.
Sometimes I'd reminisce those times
he'd knock on grandpa's door.
He'd visit him when he was sick
then here, dismiss his snore.
But higher still, than grandpa's snore -
his words echoed above.
He'd pound into my hardened heart
the softness of God's love.
I'll not forget his alter calls,
his passioned plea, to come -
and lay my every burden down
so Christian, I'd become.
And one thing more I'll not forget,
in sermons through the weeks -
that he loved every one of us -
the proof ran down his cheeks.
My pastor, I will not forget.
He wasn't my first choice.
Delighted, though, I'd be again
to hear his raspy voice.
This poem won second place for the July 2012 poetry contest