I have been out preaching a little bit lately. Some folks don't mind a tired old saddleback preacher from time to time, so I occasionally get a chance to hold forth here and there. I was up to Pike Bay and Lion's Head in rural Ontario last year Pike Bay is a stalwart group of folks who pray in their little chapel nestled in the trees and thick bush. Lion's Head is an active and busy group who have opened their doors to the Roman Catholics. The sign out front announces the United Church and the Roman Catholic congregations both worship there.

Those United Churches are served by a young woman who shares her humanity and faith with energy and enthusiasm. The folks are delighted in her ministry. There were not many kids the Sunday I was there because they were off with their minister at a camp that takes the heat off returning to school. Anyone who goes camping with a group of kids is admired in my book.

The next Sunday I was at Maxwell, not too far from Collingwood, Ont., for their anniversary. The building shows signs of weariness, as do the people, aging now with some pride, carrying the duties of being the church with a long memory. I enjoyed teasing them about the fact no one could remember how old the church really was. You can get that way, just forgetting how old you are. It doesn't matter.

Some members from nearby Bajeros closed their services and came over to be with the Maxwell people. It reminded me of the story of Moses who, as he stood with arms outstretched parting the waters of the Red Sea, became exhausted. He could barely hold his arms up high enough to keep the waters back. The people, once slaves, were risking the walk to freedom. Others in the camp saw Moses' fatigue and stepped in to help by holding up his arms. The folks from Bajeros had come to hold up the arms of weary prophets.

They came with their children and their Sunday School teachers to make the place sparkle with youth. One little boy, coming in late was very shy and when he saw that he was being devoured by aging eyes, he covered his own with his arm, trying to hide from such warm and welcoming importance. Do you remember covering your face so that you could not be seen? Both of these congregations have a young woman minister too. They love her and she loves them. It is evident everywhere. It was easy to be there among such loving people.

The folks from Bajeros were mostly young women that Sunday, with the kids, though I was told the fathers often carry the same responsibilities. They were beautiful young moms with eyes quick to serve and gentle care in their movements among the other people and the children. They seemed like comfortable rural folks who were quietly keeping the traditions and hopes alive. They knew that their young minister, a working mother with four kids, understood them.

As I watched the people gather and saw the affection among them, I was reminded of many years ago when my mother had been minister of two little churches in the Ohio Valley. The presence of the young mothers with their kids took me back to the 1940's, during the Second World War, when the men had gone off to Europe and the Pacific. My mother was left with a town full of young mothers with little kids and a lot of fear. As a matter of fact she was one with them. My dad, had gone off to war with the men of his church, unable to remain behind. So she too was, for five years, living on the edge of life and smelling the smoke of battle in her dreams.

Our house in those days was full of these young women. My mother gathered them for regular meetings where they could talk of their loneliness and the anxieties they suffered about the war. They helped one another with the red tape of government and the postal services. They gathered to make items to send to the front lines, like socks and cookies and letters of hope. Mom guided them in learning to pray and helped them cook and sew. They met once a week, were on the phone often and named themselves the F.T.D. Club, which meant: "For The Duration" club. That was a common expression in those days, some of you will remember, the 'duration' being a temporary designation of the war.

So, for the duration, they gathered and held one another when the telegrams came, "Wounded in Action", "Missing in action" or "Missing in Action, Presumed Dead" and finally "Killed in Action". She led them in their support and care for each other and she led them to the graves high on the hill overlooking the Valley and the river, where the bodies of their men were sent to rest. Most difficult of all, I suspect, she helped them accept the dark news when there was only a small package of a man's belongings and a letter from his commanding officer; their lover left to be buried on foreign soil.

So, looking at those young women that Sunday, their energy and courage as well as their fondness for their minister, I was taken back to the parlour of our small parsonage, where I as a young kid listened in on the singing and laughter and the fun of the F.T.D. Club. Although I was too young to realize it then, I remembered the gift that our home became to those who sometimes came by themselves to confess their loneliness and their weariness in the war. The day came when the F.T.D. Club's minister received the feared telegram too: "Wounded in Action". The young women came with pies and casseroles and held their minister friend while she trembled in their love and her fear. They held her arms aloft day after day while she parted the waters for others to walk to freedom.