The gravel road seemed freshly graded as I turned onto the street where Wilber lived. I remember that the street had recently been graded and was relatively smooth, except for a tiny pothole just in front of Wilber's house. I wondered how the grader could have missed it.

It was Monday. Yesterday I preached my first sermon at my first church. One of the deacons had suggested I visit Wilber.

I didn't know enough to call ahead. I just dropped in. Wilber was friendly and we visited for about an hour. He promised to be in church next Sunday morning.

Over the period of the next six months, Wilber faithfully attended the Sunday morning worship service. During this period I regularly visited in his home. My visits were not all that memorable, except for that pesky pothole just in front of his house. No matter how often they graded the road, that particular pothole never went away. I never mentioned the pothole to Wilber. He may not have even been aware of it, but I noticed it. I hit it every time I visited him at home.



I had been at the church seven months when Wilber's work began to keep him away from church. He began to miss about every second week. I remember talking to Wilber about his job, and its effect on his church attendance. He assured me that working on Sunday was only a temporary situation. "Besides," he said, "The church needs my extra tithe."

He was right. We did. I was young then and didn't know what to say so I simply encouraged him not to let his absence from church, absent him from God. He assured me that when he wasn't with us in the flesh, he'd be there in the spirit.

Over the next few months, Wilber's church attendance became more and more sporadic. My visits to his home also became more infrequent. I was probably just as well. The gravel road was getting worse every day. The pothole in front of his house seemed large enough to swallow a small elephant. I found myself only driving on his street when it was absolutely necessary.

I had pastored the church just days less than a year when Wilber called me unexpectedly and asked me to come over. He had just lost his job due to employee cutbacks. As I turned onto his street, I feared my car might vibrate to pieces before I reached his house, and the pothole in front of his house seemed more like a crater.

It was a profitable visit. Wilber said he felt like God was punishing him for dropping out of church. I wasn't sure that was true, but I didn't argue the point. We talked for a while, then I prayed with him and left. On Sunday morning, Wilber was back in church. He was also there on Sunday evening. After the evening service, he asked me to come over for tea. I noted when I turned onto Wilber's street that it had been freshly graded. It was free of bumps and potholes, except for the one in front of his house, and even that pothole was barely noticeable.

Wilber's faithfulness was short lived. Within three months, his attendance was sporadic again. He was still unemployed and he had taken up hunting as a way to keep his freezer stocked. I never understood why, but weekends and especially Sundays were the best time to hunt.

Surprisingly, Wilber often got a deer or elk on Sunday morning. He interpreted this as a sign of God's blessing. "After all," he said, "Where can you worship God better than in the outdoors He created?" In time, Wilber completely dropped out of church.

The grading on Wilber's street didn't last any longer than Wilber's commitment to the church. One by one, the potholes always returned. They always came back in the same places and the pothole in front of Wilber's house was the worst on the block.

I was struck by the strange correlation between Wilber’s faithfulness and the potholes on his street. Whenever Wilber dropped out of church, the potholes became progressively worse. Whenever he was active in church, the street seemed to improve. I mentioned this observation to my wife. She said I had an overactive imagination.



It was Saturday afternoon. Two years had come and gone without Wilber darkening the door of the church. We had scheduled a guest evangelist to preach in our Sunday morning worship service, and I felt compelled to go out of my way to visit Wilber and invite him to attend. As I turned onto his street there was a crew working on the road. Finally, the city was paving the street. I talked briefly with the foreman while waiting for a tractor to get out of the way. He said the subsurface was so riddled with potholes that grading the road (which produced only a cosmetic effect) had little lasting value. There was nothing that could be done but to dig up the old road and lay down a new road.

Wilber worshipped with us the next morning and at the end of the service, he came forward and gave his life to Jesus. Tears welled up in his eyes as he spoke to the evangelist. "I used to attend this church," Wilber said, "I was even baptized, but I don't think I ever truly made Jesus my Lord and Savior. I want to do that this morning."

It's been five years since Wilber gave his life to Christ. He's now our most faithful deacon, and it probably has no significance at all that the street where he lives is as smooth as the day it was paved. 



The End