My Super Power, A Chapel Challenge, and a Final Benediction

The Wardens Represented the People: Helpful. Supportive. Brave. And Fran Turned Down a Million Dollar Gift

Update Alert!!

This is the final episode of The Christ Church Stories. What a privilege it has been to recall God’s incredible faithfulness over those first 31 years. Thank you for reading, commenting, and occasionally clicking that little heart. It all meant more than you know.

But before we close, I have a remarkable update—something I think will make you smile.

After I published the post about Fr. Ted and Lee Ann, I had the joy of visiting her. I walked into her room, and she looked at me and said, “Please sit down.” So I did. Then she looked me squarely in the eye and said, “You. You wrote things about me that I’ve never heard before. No one has ever written about me like that. I was so deeply touched, David. Thank you.”

That was a joy to write. And your response was just as touching. I had mentioned that if anyone wanted to give toward a bouquet of flowers for her, I’d be happy to deliver it on your behalf.

Well—wow. You broke a record.

You donated $789. That’s going to be quite the bouquet. Fran and I will deliver the flowers along with your prayers, your admiration, and your love. And Lee Ann will decide how to use the rest of the money. I have no doubt it will bring her joy.

So thank you. For your generosity. For your encouragement. And for walking with me through these stories of Christ Church.

Thanks be to God.

Now, to today’s story:

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Not Making It

There was a season—and more than one, truth be told—when it wasn’t clear that we were going to make it. Fran and me. Financially.

The church was growing, and our kids were growing. But our take-home income wasn’t growing fast enough to sustain us. We had four kids at home. Fran wasn’t working, and I was giving everything I had to the church. It became clear that something would have to give.

That something would have to be Fran.

Could she go get a paycheck? Somewhere? Anywhere? Anything would help.

She never said a word of complaint. She just started looking at what it might mean for her to pick up work—maybe watching kids after school, maybe a job that would take her out of the house for half a day. She had all the skills in the world, and she could have done anything, but I knew what it would cost us.

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So I went to the wardens.

I sat down and said, "We have a problem. I don't know what can be done, but I'm telling you the truth: we aren't making it. If something doesn’t change, Fran will need to go to work."

Then I looked them square in the eye and said, "My brothers, you do not want to be a member of a church led by me without Fran at my side. It will not be pretty. If you like what you see here, if you believe in what we've started to build, then I need you to find a way to make this work."

I never tried to negotiate my salary. It seemed unseemly to me. But I did, on occasion, ask the Sr. Warden to think about my compensation, pray over it, consult with the Vestry, and then tell me the decision.

I had a number in mind. It was the amount we needed, on top of what I was already being paid. The wardens didn’t say much. They listened, and then they left to have the conversation with the vestry.

A few days later, they came back. They gave me the exact number we had prayed for.

That’s when I knew they understood.

Fran has always been the uncredited partner in this whole thing—the heart behind the curtain. And the church felt it. If you’d ask anyone, they’d tell you that the secret behind Christ Church was Fran.

The Chapel Story

Years later, we were building the new sanctuary. We had envisioned a chapel alongside it and even included it in the scale model, but it was always a dream. We didn’t have the funds.

Then, one day, I got a call from a friend, a businessman in the parish, who wanted to meet me at Starbucks.

We sat and talked. Then he asked, "How much is that chapel going to cost? The one on the model?"

I guessed, "Somewhere in the neighborhood of a million dollars."

"Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure. Plus or minus a little."

He looked at me and said, "My wife and I want to give Christ Church a million dollars to build the chapel. On one condition."

I was stunned.

He said, "You have to name it after Fran."

I stared at him. "Are you kidding? Why?"

"Because I know pastors. And I know that whatever good they do, it's because they've got a strong, faithful, supportive wife behind them. If you can name the chapel after her, I’ll give it."

I drove straight home. Racking my brain. This was going to hard sell. What could it be? The Frances Chapel? She didn’t have an ‘i in her name, so that knocked out St. Francis. I always referred to her as the First Lady of Christ Church. Hmmm. Notre Dame? No way!

I slowed my drive home because I couldn’t think of the right name.

If I had taken a vote, I think the congregation would have gone for “The Chapel of the Better Half.”

It was a million-dollar moment.

It tried the sweet but direct approach.

"Honey," I said, "someone just offered a million dollars for the chapel… but they want to name it after you."

She looked over from the sink. "What?"

"He said he wouldn't give the gift unless your name is somehow attached to it."

She blinked. "Well, you better call it off. Tell him that's not going to happen. I can't imagine why anyone would want that."

She just shook her head. "David, you better call off the gift. I could never do that."

So I tucked my tail and went into the study and picked up the phone.

"She said no," I told him.

There was a long pause. Then he said, "Okay. Well… I’m going to give it anyway. I just wanted you to know how important your wife is to this."

And that’s how the chapel got built.

A Senior Warden Parade

Fast-forward to 2016. The Vestry had made its decision, and Paul’s immigration was taking time. But I wanted to say a long, slow, proper goodbye.

So I called a meeting.

Not official. Just an invitation to every person who had ever served as Senior Warden at Christ Church.

I wanted to see them. To thank them. To thank God. To remember what we had built together.

There were thirty names on the list. One had died. A few had moved away. One didn’t come—we’d had a rough year, and not everything mends. But most showed up. One had served two years during the freeze we imposed while leaving the Episcopal Church.

I looked around and saw what time had built. One remarkable woman. The rest, men. All of them carried stories—budgets balanced, buildings raised, staff issues managed, and hard decisions made when no one else wanted to.

And then Russ walked in.

After his term as Warden, his wife had returned to her Roman Catholic roots. He went with her—faithfully, if not easily. After she died, I attended her memorial and half-expected him to come “home” to Christ Church.

But home, it turned out, was somewhere else.

Russ kept walking the Roman road. In time, he became a Roman Catholic priest. And he came to that meeting in a Roman collar.

I thought: That’s wonderful.

We met at my house. We opened in prayer, and I welcomed them with everything I had. Then I asked a question I’d been holding for years: “What do you remember of God’s faithfulness during your time as Senior Warden?”

And they answered.

They remembered skating on financial thin ice and praying through December for God to pull us through. He did. Every single time.

They remembered commissioning new churches—five by design, one that slipped out the back door.

They remembered the building campaigns. Seven in total. Land bought, architects hired (and a few fired), capital raised, blueprints revised. Policies, search committees, bishops, mission trips, coffee after coffee.

They remembered taking title to $45 million in property. And paying off the last of the debt—twenty-one years later.

Some remembered standing with me when things got hard. One night I had to terminate a youth worker. A group of parents came with questions. I stood in front of them and asked for their trust. I couldn’t say more—legal reasons, pastoral ones. The murmuring started.

Then the Senior Warden stood up. Took the mic. Said he knew the facts. Said I’d done the right thing.

That was it. Meeting over. He had my back.

They always did.

The stories that stuck with them weren’t about conflict or money. They were spiritual. Christ Church was where many of them came to know the Lord in a way that stuck. I’d heard their testimonies at men’s retreats over the years. They had grown in their faith.

One Warden said he kept track of how many actual votes we took in his three-year term. It was just a handful. The budget. Land purchases. Debt.

Most of our time wasn’t spent on motions or minutes. We talked about the dream we shared—and how to keep it alive and open to God’s next move.

I never used the Vestry as a permission board. And they never used their role to fence me in. We trusted each other. I loved them. I never blindsided them.

They weren’t just wingmen. They were my eyes and ears. They helped me see the church from the pews.

Present Day

Two months ago, I got a text from Paul Donison. He told me Christ Church would celebrate its 40th anniversary.

Would I attend?

Of course.

That’s when I decided to write these stories. To remember. To record. And most of all, to give thanks. Not just for what happened, but for how good God has been through it all.

For 31 years, Christ Church was a cue ball church. It hit others into motion. It planted churches, raised leaders, and launched ministries. Not perfect, but faithful. And fruitful.

We went to the anniversary gathering on May 7th. I was invited to say a few words.

I was home. But I wasn’t home, either.

Leaving a church isn’t what it used to be. Especially when you live less than a mile away. People still see you. Tag you. Assume things.

And when you’re the founding rector who sticks around, it gets complicated.

Some call it the “how can we miss you if you won’t go away” syndrome. Others call it something else.

I’ve learned what the leadership books call the long shadow of the founder. Even if you step back, your shadow doesn’t disappear right away. And sometimes, new leaders just want the sun to come out.

I get it.

There were days I missed it so much I’d drive by and have to keep my hands on the wheel—literally and otherwise. But this is the last story. I’m not looking back anymore.

I want to say thank you. To the wardens who stood beside me. The vestry who carried the weight and the staff that trusted me. My wife, without whom none of this happens.

Christ Church is still going. It’s a cathedral now. It probably always should’ve been.

And Paul—he’s the Dean. The preacher. The shepherd. He’s doing faithful work. I bless it.

I miss it, yes. But I don’t belong there anymore. That’s not sad. It’s just true.

You can’t go back. Not really.

But you can give thanks. You can be proud. You can tell the stories.

And that’s what I’ve done.

These are the stories of Christ Church.

I am thankful to God for His Faithfulness. Thankful to Fran for hers, too. I’m blessed beyond measure by my loving family (seen below last summer). And I praise God for the years—the many years of ministry at Christ Church.

Thanks be to God.

Grace and peace,

David Roseberry ☩
The Anglican