When I lived in London I went to Childs Hill Baptist Church. The old church building was in some disrepair, and we used the hall for the services. After the evening service we had coffee and tea, and biscuits. The tea was always made by Mary.
Mary was short and round, and always had a smile on her face. She had lived in the area all her life, and had a fund of tales of the blitz and before. I often helped her with the washing up and loved hearing snippets of what life was like in earlier times.
Whenever the subject of what jobs we could do came up, she would always say her tombstone should read: This is Mary who made the tea. The only argument we ever had was whether making the tea was an important job or not. I said it was vital, she said it wasn’t.
Mary died suddenly. On the Sunday following her death, no one made the tea. No one put the boiler on before the service. No one took the cups out. No one bought biscuits. We all just left after a few minutes and went home.
It was a lesson to all of us. We had taken Mary’s gift of making the tea for granted. She couldn’t give a load of money, or preach, or take a service, or read a lesson. She showed her love for her Lord in the way she could.
She made the tea.
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