adapted from James 2:1-4 by Manfred Koehler

Kyle watched old Mrs. Peekle slowly walk toward the church doors. Her gold-tipped cane flashed in the Sunday morning sun. Kyle smiled. He loved ushering Mrs. Peekle into church.

Just behind her, a long, green car pulled into the parking lot. Kyle smiled even wider. The car belonged to Mr. and Mrs. Bovair. He loved ushering the Bovairs into church, too. Kyle hustled toward Mrs. Peekle, extending an elbow. She took it with a nod.

"You look happy today, Mrs. Peekle."

Mrs. Peekle was not looking very happy. "What’s the rush, Son?"

Kyle slowed down, casting an anxious glance over his shoulder. Mr. Bovair was just getting out of his car. Good. There was still time.

"I’m sorry, Mrs. Peekle." Kyle was not feeling sorry. "I just wanted to make sure you got the best pew."

Mrs. Peekle gave Kyle a glittery smile.

Kyle gave Mrs. Peekle a more glittery smile.

The two passed through the church auditorium happily. Mrs. Peekle sat down in the front pew. "Make sure you see me afterward," she whispered.

Kyle closed his eyes, patted Mrs. Peekle on the shoulder and gave her a little bow. Then he glanced at her white leather purse. If there was anything Kyle loved more than ushering Mrs. Peekle before church, it was ushering her after church. That was the payoff—usually $5.

Kyle hurried back to the church entrance. Mr. Bovair had just closed the car door for his wife. Great. He hadn’t missed them. Mr. Bovair was good for at least $10. Kyle checked for the red rag in his pocket. He planned on wiping the Bovair’s car windows and mirrors when they stepped out of church. That might earn $20.

Before the Bovairs arrived, Kyle saw another elderly lady approach. He didn’t recognize her. The lady’s walking stick was ordinary wood, its tip splintered. Her purse was made of black imitation leather.

Kyle frowned, then forced a smile. "Welcome to our church, Ma’am." He opened the door and hoped she would hurry on.

The lady stopped.

Kyle looked at the ground, unsure what to do. The woman’s shoes were scuffed at the toes.

"I’m new here. Could you help me find a seat?" The lady blinked politely.

Kyle glanced over his shoulder. The Bovairs were on their way. Kyle had zero time for this old woman. But he had no choice. Crooking his elbow, Kyle offered her his arm.

"Right this way, Ma’am." Kyle’s smile felt like black imitation leather.

He fought the urge to rush. The two walked through the foyer and into the auditorium. He pointed at the back pew.

"Here’s your seat, Ma’am. Enjoy the service."

Before the lady could answer, Kyle was gone without a bow. But he was too late. Another usher had already found the Bovairs.

Kyle fumed. How could I have let that shabby old woman distract me?

He pulled out his red rag, squeezing it in a fist. He would make sure the Bovairs found him wiping like mad when the service ended. He’d have to work in Mrs. Peekle somehow, too.

The service started. Kyle stepped into the auditorium and sat down. He hoped the sermon would be short.

Thirty-five minutes later, the sermon finally started.

"Turn in your Bibles to James chapter two," the preacher began. "Listen carefully while I read the first few verses."

Kyle wasn’t interested in listening. He was too busy tying knots in his red rag.

"My brothers, as believers in our glorious Lord Jesus Christ, don’t show favoritism."

Favoritism? Kyle thought. What’s that supposed to mean?

"Suppose a man comes into your meeting wearing a gold ring and fine clothes . . ."

Kyle looked at the preacher, his eyes big. The Bible talks about that?

". . . and a poor man in shabby clothes also comes in."

Kyle gulped and looked around. He spotted the poor lady in the back pew.

"If you show special attention to the man wearing fine clothes and say, ‘Here’s a good seat for you . . .’ "

Kyle’s throat went tight. He could see Mrs. Peekle in the front pew.

". . . but say to the poor man, ‘You stand there.’"

Kyle squeezed his eyes shut. He was afraid to look again at the poor lady.

". . . have you not discriminated among yourselves and become judges with evil thoughts?"

Kyle’s head sank. His heart throbbed. Gold-tipped cane. Green car. Shabby clothes. White purse. Money. More.

Evil thoughts. Those two words haunted Kyle for the rest of the service.

The words of the last hymn still hung in the air when Kyle rushed to find the poor old lady. He ushered her slowly out the church doors and into the parking lot.

"Please come back again, Ma’am," Kyle said. "And I’ll make sure to find you a closer seat."

Kyle bowed and his smile glittered like gold in the Sunday morning sun.

	Q: Where do rich cooks live? A: Beverly Grills. Jesse S., 10, California Clubhouse Jr. Click here to subscribe