The Weeny Roast

 

When I was a boy at home, years ago, our family calendar revolved around activities at Eagle Creek Church. Week by week we were grounded in the regular worship and prayer services. And as the seasons changed we enjoyed special events with our church family. The Eagle Creek Youth Group met every Wednesday night in a basement classroom to sing praise songs, study the Bible and conduct Youth Group business. Our annual schedule of events included fun activities that always encouraged a spiritual or relational focus and also service projects that always turned out to be fun.

One of our regular service projects was a community leaf-raking service. On a frosty Saturday morning in October we would meet at the church and form several teams. An adult driver, usually one of our parents, would be assigned a carload of kids. We would load our rakes into the trunk of the car and off we’d go to the home of one of our local senior citizens. We’d jump out of the car at our first destination and make short work of raking the leaves into big piles to be burned, carried off in a truck, or left to decompose along a fencerow. Each itinerary would include several locations and our initial enthusiasm naturally eroded as the day progressed. But our youthful spirits were invigorated by the promise of a hearty and sumptuous weeny roast back at the church when we were finished.

It was late in the afternoon one year as the leaf-raking teams returned to the church parking lot after a day of hard work and teenage shenanigans. We were instructed to rake up the leaves around the church as the leaders set up the charcoal grill and other supplies for the long-awaited weeny roast.

Junior and Cleo Berger were our faithful Youth Group Leaders. They had families and other responsibilities of their own, but they joyfully poured hours and days of their time into the lives of a bunch of teenagers from the church. They were a wonderful example of love and devotion for their little flock of awkward and immature pre-adults, and they seemed inseparable. But on this particular Saturday, Junior had to work at his Gas Station and Cleo was left to lead the activities with a few other adults.

Us kids finished our final raking job and then hovered around the adults to pester them as they made the preparations. We were prepared to pounce the moment the plump, sizzling hot dogs were served. But the designated grillmaster didn’t seem to be making much progress. The charcoal briquettes had been mounded up and doused with lighter fluid, but after the initial flare-up nothing but a tentative thread of smoke arose from the cold coals. Another liberal dousing of lighter fluid was applied by the frustrated grillmaster. A match was thrown onto the mound of charcoal resulting in a minor flare-up, but within a few minutes the briquettes were as cold and black as they were at first. The grumbling teenagers tightened their circle around the frustrated adults and their reluctant charcoal grill. The security light flickered on as darkness descended upon this scene of hunger and desperation.

The beleaguered leaders moved the stubborn charcoal grill closer to the outside light over the doors of the church. The dauntless grillmaster carefully dribbled the last of the lighter fluid onto the crumbling briquettes and held a flickering match up to the coals. He then blew little puffs of his own air into the quickly diminishing flames in an attempt to fuel the fire without blowing it out. Finally a few of the coals were actually turning white on the edges and the big round grate was fitted to the grill and lowered to the surface of the coals. With the aroma of lighter fluid lingering in the cold night air, the leaders decided it was now or never as they arranged the dozens of cold, pale hotdogs on the grill. If you listened closely you could detect a faint sizzle.

The teenagers were in full grumble mode by now and some were making disparaging remarks that seemed very clever to their peers. My parents were not in attendance, so I was treating the audience to some of my best smart-alec material. This behavior, of course, only added to the frustration of the adults. It was then that our attention was drawn to the headlights approaching the church, hoping that perhaps someone had come to rescue one of us from this scene of escalating hunger and despair. A big silver Chrysler rolled up and the man who disembarked was none other than Junior Berger! All eyes turned to him as he approached the group. “Well look who finally shows up when it’s time to eat”, I said, expecting everyone to laugh. Cleo Berger fixed her eyes on me and delivered a sternly righteous rebuke that ended my comedic monologue.

Junior Berger didn’t say much. Rubbing his hands together with a tight-lipped smile he strode purposefully to the door of the church and disappeared within. We all wondered what he was up to. A few minutes later he reappeared with an old round canister vacuum cleaner trailing a cord that he had plugged in somewhere. The hose dangled from the rear end of it. We didn’t have time to laugh at him or make any more jokes. He pointed the hose at the tepid bed of coals and hit the switch. The clamorous blast from the vacuum cleaner produced an instant “Fa-Woosh!”; an explosion of ash and smoke! And when the dust settled the flames burned hot and bright. “WooHoo”, the crowd cheered as Junior Berger rolled up the hose and followed the cord back into the church.

By the time he reappeared the charcoal was white and hot. The grate was reaffixed to the grill with the hotdogs already in place and within a few minutes there was a genuine sizzle and the grillmaster was turning the hot dogs and calling for Junior to grab a bun!

For this reason I remind you to fan into flame the gift of God, which is in you through the laying on of my hands. For God did not give us a spirit of timidity, but a spirit of power, of love and of self-discipline.

2 Timothy 1: 6&7 (NIV)