I blame Margaret for everything.
One Sunday stands out. Our student ministry brought in a guest worship leader. The volume was too loud, and the music selection was too metal. Margaret was in the back watching. She saw me approaching the sound booth and grabbed my arm, staring intently at me.
She knew exactly what I was about to do.
“Margaret, you’ve got to let me go so I can tell them to turn it down.”
“You will do no such thing, pastor.”
“They’re headbanging.”
“No, Samuel Solomon,” using my first and middle name for emphasis, “They are worshiping.”
She was in her early 80s at the time. I blame Margaret for the growth of our student ministry.
A few years later, she decided to serve on a mission trip. Some of our leaders tried to convince her not to go because the trip was challenging and would take place in a country with limited medical facilities. Given her age and health struggles, everyone knew the trip would be demanding.
I’ll never forget her response, “The one ministry I’ve never done in the church is to go internationally. I cannot stand before Jesus without sharing His name cross-culturally.”
Some men in our church devised a plan to go with her and stand by her side for every step of the trip. Her presence meant even more people went on the trip.
I blame Margaret for the strong health of our mission efforts.
She learned about our ministry to serve the homeless, and she was there every Saturday, feeding and clothing people in need.
“Is there ever a day when you’re not doing something with our church?” I asked jokingly.
“The day I stop serving is the day I die,” she replied in all seriousness.
People of all socioeconomic backgrounds are welcome in our church. I blame Margaret.
One Sunday, she brought her family’s old ration books to church. She told me stories about her experiences during World War 2 as a young girl—how she learned that sacrifice is necessary to defeat evil.
“My parents didn’t buy me new shoes, and we went without meat and sugar. If we could do that back then, I know we can sacrifice now as a church to get this new building project done.”
I blame Margaret for the renovated spaces across our church campus and the culture of sacrifice that defines our congregation.
When hurricanes Helene and Milton hit our community back-to-back within a couple of weeks, Margaret lost all her worldly possessions, including her home. The flood waters and wind wiped it all away. This loss hurt her deeply. She had previously lost her husband and, tragically, her son and daughter-in-law. When I visited her at a friend’s house, she collapsed in my arms from exhaustion.
“Thank you so much for visiting me, but you can’t stay long. I’m fine, and others need your help. Get your chainsaw crews back out there and take care of business.”
I blame Margaret for giving us the momentum we needed to recover from a devastating natural disaster.
The Sunday before her death, she was in her usual places: rocking babies in the nursery, greeting people in our commons area, learning more about the Bible in her life group, and worshiping with passion in our sanctuary. Most people knew her as a gracious elderly woman who loved unconditionally. That was her exterior. Inside was a persistent and shrewd widow full of fight. Margaret put on the full armor of God, and there wasn’t a polished part of it. She battled the powers of darkness, and the deep scratches, dents, and dings were everywhere.
But a massive stroke took her down at 89 years old. Then, hospice. My wife visited with her, not expecting a response given her frail condition. Margaret looked up, wide-eyed.
“Did they do it? Did the kids do it?!”
“You want to see?”
“Show me.”
They watched the recording of the kids’ choir performing their Palm Sunday production on a friend’s phone.
She pumped her fist in the air, “Yes!”
I blame Margaret for the hundreds of children who now come to our church.
She cherished the preaching of God’s Word, but she wasn’t there on Easter morning. Her physical body could no longer contain the fullness of her soul. She passed away at 11:25 a.m., at the very moment I began my sermon. Margaret loved nothing more than being with her church. But this Sunday—Easter morning—she had a better place to be.
The matriarch is gone. On the very day the church celebrated the risen Christ, Margaret entered fully into the hope of resurrection. At the moment we declared, “He is risen,” Margaret saw the risen Savior face to face. She led one last charge against the gates of hell before entering the presence of heaven, leaving behind a healthy church full of hope, love, grit, and fortitude.
I blame Margaret for everything.
Posted on April 24, 2026
As President of Church Answers, Sam Rainer wears many hats. From podcast co-host to full-time Pastor at West Bradenton Baptist Church, Sam’s heart for ministry and revitalization are evident in all he does.
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