Concrete for Nellie Quail

The summer youth pastor was assigned to lead more than 100 teenagers in Phoenix,

Arizona. He found an old barn and opened it for “food and fun” on Friday evenings. The teens came, brought their guitars, and ate the burgers. Lots of burgers.

The music began early and lasted till late. One evening a guy asked, “Can you learn about grace in the Old Testament, or is that just in the New Testament?”

The youth pastor opened the Old Testament and started telling grace-filled Bible stories. The next three Friday nights were filled with laughing, singing, praying, and talking about the God of grace.

Then Timmy spoke up.

“I think we’re being really selfish,” he declared. “I mean, we’re not sharing any of our food and music and fun with anyone else! Isn’t grace better when we share it with others? We’ve only been thinking about us. Maybe we ought to share with somebody else!”

That began an intense discussion about practical Christian living. At the end of the evening Timmy gave everyone an assignment.

“Come back next Friday night with one good idea about something grace-filled we could do for someone else.”

Begging Lists

Timmy spoke first the next Friday evening. “I’ve found an 85-year-old Indian woman on the Fort McDowell Indian reservation who actually translated for Elder H.M.S. Richards during one of his evangelistic campaigns. She lives in an ancient adobe house with no running water. I think we ought to build her a new house.”

Everyone agreed, as if they were professional contractors.

Nellie Quail’s house was a crumbling adobe with one small room that was cluttered with a bed, a small dresser, a weaving loom, and a stack of cooking pots. The kitchen was outside, and the bathroom was “down the creek a bit.”

Nellie was a bent-over grandma who peered at Timmy and the youth pastor with amazed displeasure.

“I like my house. Why would I want a new one?”

Friday night Timmy showed everyone pictures of Nellie and her house. “The new house should be bigger than this one,” he said. Then he started giving out assignments.

“We’ll need drywall, paint, shingles, and a stove,” he began.

“And an indoor toilet,” someone interrupted. “And a refrigerator, a bathtub, and a new bed

with sheets,” others shouted.

The list grew rapidly, and so did the list of teens who were willing to find the things they’d need.

The youth pastor was assigned to design the house. He quickly visited a local plumber who offered to draw the plans.

“Yes. Please. And thank you,” the youth pastor smiled.

“I’ll put the plumbing together, but the kids will have to dig the foundation. Once you do the digging, you’ll need seven yards of concrete for the foundation.”

The next Friday evening the plumber, Timmy, and the youth pastor distributed a new, longer list of construction materials.

“OK,” Timmy said. “Let’s go around town and beg businesses to give us all this stuff.

If God wants Nellie to have a new house, He’ll help us get the materials.”

After singing and burgers, Timmy divided everyone into teams, making sure each person had a begging list.

If God wants Nellie to have a new house, He’ll help us get the materials.

Ready for Concrete

At 7:00 a.m. Sunday morning the youth pastor loaded 12 teenagers into a big work truck and

headed for Nellie’s new house. The plumber had arrived early and was just finishing staking out the foundation.

By noon they were exhausted and hot, and nowhere near done digging the foundation! The youth pastor gave everyone an inflated inner tube and threw them into the Verde River to float back toward town while he drove to Phoenix and picked up another 14 teens for the afternoon shift.

“Remember,” Timmy told everyone, “God’s getting us seven yards of concrete. He’s got a full truckload on the way!”

Groups of teens took the request to all the concrete companies around Phoenix. Each said “No!” And the kids came back discouraged.

“It’s OK,” Timmy said. “We don’t need the concrete for two more weeks. God will be on time.”

Everyone prayed. But no concrete came.

On Friday afternoon before the Sunday concrete deadline, Timmy and the youth pastor were driving on a back road near Phoenix.

“What are we going do about the concrete?” the youth pastor asked.

“Where’s your faith, Pastor? We’ve done all God’s asked. Now it’s up to Him. Right?”

“Right.”

“Then,” Timmy added, “let’s follow the next concrete truck we see on the road.”

“Right.”

Five minutes later a concrete truck pulled onto the road in front of them. Timmy smiled the kind of smile you smile when you see a prayer answered.

The truck turned right and disappeared behind a tall sand dune. They stayed with it, around the dune, through a twisty arroyo, over a hill, until it stopped in the yard of a small concrete company.

Timmy was there before the truck stopped. The driver, an older man with shoulder-length hair, looked down at Timmy, who was already talking.

“Hello, sir. I’m Timmy, and a bunch of us teenagers are building a house for an 85-year-old Indian woman who lives on the Fort McDowell Indian reservation. She hasn’t ever had water in her house, and we’re going to put water in her house, and she’s going to have electricity, and she’s never had electricity or anything nice like that. We’ve dug the foundation and laid out the plumbing, but we need seven yards of concrete for the foundation, and God has sent us to you so you can supply the concrete for Nellie Quail’s new house.”

The driver motioned for Timmy to be quiet and looked over at the youth pastor.

“Is this kid for real?”

“Yes, sir.”

The man dismounted, looked at Timmy, and said, “All right, son. Tell me again. This time, talk slower.”

While Timmy was rapidly repeating everything he knew about Nellie and her house,

he also drew a map in the dirt on the truck’s front door.

“You’ll need to be there at 6:00 a.m. Sunday morning, sir.”

“Can’t do 6:00.” The man paused to kick some dirt off his boots. “But I can be

there at 7:00. OK?”

 “Sure. That’ll do.”

Then the man looked back at Timmy and asked, “Will anyone out there know

what to do with the concrete?”

Timmy pointed to the youth pastor. “He’s the guy.”

“OK,” said God’s concrete man, glancing at his door map. “See you at 7:00 Sunday morning. Now get out of here. I’ve got work to do.”

Friday night Timmy told the story, and everybody joined in a celebration prayer session that must have made the angels cry.

Concrete and Tears

Sunday morning at 5:00 a.m. 20 teenagers piled into the old work truck. They had five shovels, a collection of rusty trowels, and a couple hammers. The kids were not ready, but they pretended, and hoped.

6:45 a.m.: no truck. 7:00 a.m.: no truck. 7:06 a.m.: “Rumble. Rumble. Honk!”

Everyone stood. Faces pointed down the road like a flock of geese.

A huge cloud of dust announced a big white concrete mixer truck, with a map drawn on its

dusty door.

“Sorry I’m late. Messed up on the map. Ready to work?”

He had brought enough concrete tools to make everyone feel valuable. Nellie watched, her eyes blurred with tears, as the kids poured, leveled, and put handprints in the concrete.

Forty-five minutes later God’s concrete man washed out his truck and came over to the kids. Tears poured down his dirt-streaked face.

“I’ve done lots of stuff in my life,” he began, “but this is the only thing I’ve ever done that made any sense. I’ve always done things for me. This is the first time I’ve done something for somebody else, and for free! It’s also the first time I’ve ever done anything for God. I feel like a new person!”

He hugged the youth pastor. He hugged Timmy. Then he hugged everybody except Nellie,

who was crying beside her adobe. Then he climbed into his truck, blew the horn a dozen times, and rumbled off down the road.