There’s a kind of person you meet at every church. They know all the hymns by heart, have their name engraved on a pew cushion, and somehow manage to be on every volunteer committee.
On the surface, they’re the beating heart of the congregation—always bustling, always helping.
But stick around long enough, and you’ll notice something funny.
Sometimes, their “help” comes with a side of criticism, and their good deeds come with a spotlight aimed squarely at themselves.
That’s who Cynthia was.
When I signed up to help with the annual charity dinner, I just wanted to feel like I belonged somewhere.
I didn’t expect perfection. I didn’t even expect anyone to notice me.
But what I got instead was a front-row seat to chaos—and an unexpected lesson in the difference between helping and actually making a difference.
Welcome to the Kitchen, Kid
They told me the charity dinner was a big deal, but I didn’t realize how big until I stepped into the church basement that Saturday morning.
The smell of freshly baked rolls and roasted vegetables hit me first, warm and inviting. But the scene itself?
That was something else entirely.
The kitchen was a hurricane of cutting boards, mixing bowls, and half-empty coffee cups. Volunteers darted between tables, their voices overlapping in a messy symphony of questions and complaints.
“Who took the serving spoons?”
“We’re short three tablecloths!”
“Does anyone know where the lemon zester is?”
I hovered near the door, clutching the crumpled flyer that had convinced me to sign up in the first place. Help us serve the community! Volunteers needed for our annual charity dinner!
It had sounded so simple, so wholesome. But now, staring at the chaos, I wasn’t sure I belonged here.
“Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to help?”
I turned to see a woman bustling toward me. She was tall and sharp-looking, with a silver cross pendant and a clipboard that she wielded like a scepter.
This, I would soon learn, was Cynthia.
“I—I’m here to help,” I stammered.
“Well, of course you are,” she said briskly, sizing me up. “I’ll find you something simple. We can’t have beginners slowing things down.”
Before I could respond, she handed me a butter knife and pointed to a tray of bread. “Butter those. Evenly. And don’t dawdle—we’re already behind schedule.”
I nodded, sliding into the nearest chair and picking up a slice of bread.
As I worked, I watched Cynthia float through the room like she owned it. She barked orders, scolded anyone who hesitated, and made a point of loudly correcting even the tiniest mistakes.
“Tammy, that’s too much dressing on the salad. Start over.”
“Jack, those forks are crooked. Straighten them.”
“For goodness’ sake, where is the dessert tray?”
At one point, Cynthia glanced my way and muttered, “You’re doing fine, dear. Just…don’t overthink it.”
It wasn’t exactly comforting.
Cynthia’s Rules of Engagement
By lunchtime, I had buttered more bread than I thought physically possible. My hands smelled like margarine, and my back ached from sitting hunched over the table.
Meanwhile, Cynthia swept through the room, clipboard in hand, inspecting every task like a queen surveying her kingdom.
“Don’t forget, presentation is everything,” she said, holding up a plate of roasted vegetables. “These need to be arranged in rainbow order—carrots, squash, broccoli. If it’s not perfect, it’s not worth serving.”
I stole a glance at the other volunteers. They looked tired, their movements slower than before, but no one dared challenge Cynthia.
One older woman even muttered, “Yes, Your Highness,” under her breath before reluctantly rearranging the vegetables.
I wanted to laugh, but something about the scene made my stomach twist.
Cynthia wasn’t just bossy; she was…performing.
Every time the pastor or one of the church elders wandered into the kitchen, her voice would soften, her smile would widen, and she’d deliver lines like, “It’s all about teamwork,” or “Anything for the community.”
But the second they left, her tone would snap back to sharp and critical.
By mid-afternoon, cracks in her carefully managed operation started to show. Tammy accidentally spilled dressing on one of the tablecloths, and Cynthia lost it.
“For heaven’s sake, Tammy, were you even paying attention?” Cynthia snapped. “Do you know how hard it is to clean fabric like this?”
Tammy flushed bright red and hurried to the sink, muttering an apology.
I watched the scene unfold, my hands gripping a dish towel. I wasn’t sure what to do.
Cynthia clearly knew what she was doing—or at least, she acted like it—but the way she spoke to people felt…wrong.
“Don’t let her get to you,” Jack, the fork-straightening volunteer, whispered as he passed me. “It’s just Cynthia being Cynthia.”
I nodded, unsure what to say. But in the back of my mind, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was going to go wrong.
And when it did, I had a front-row seat.
When the Best-Laid Plans Burn
By late afternoon, the kitchen was a pressure cooker of rising tempers and frayed nerves.
Cynthia’s micromanagement had left everyone exhausted and resentful, and the once-cheerful chatter among the volunteers had dissolved into muttered complaints and tense silence.
I kept my head down, buttering, chopping, and cleaning as Cynthia paced the room, her clipboard now more weapon than tool. She was in full meltdown mode.
“Where is the garlic? I said minced garlic, not chopped!” Cynthia barked, waving a pan in the air.
“It’s fine, Cynthia,” Tammy said through gritted teeth. “It tastes the same.”
“No, it does not!” Cynthia snapped. “Do you think Gordon Ramsay would serve fine garlic?”
Tammy threw down her spoon and stormed out, leaving the salad half-finished. Cynthia didn’t even blink.
“Fine,” she muttered. “We’ll manage without her.”
But we weren’t managing.
A burnt smell wafted from the oven, and Cynthia rushed over to find the casserole—her casserole—blackened and bubbling over. She yanked it out, fanning smoke away as volunteers coughed and gagged.
“Who was watching this?” Cynthia demanded.
Silence. Everyone looked anywhere but at her.
“That’s what I thought,” she said, her voice shaking.
I bit my lip, suppressing the urge to point out that she had insisted on watching it herself, insisting no one else could handle “such an important dish.”
And then came the final straw.
The table linens, the pristine white ones Cynthia had ordered specifically for this event, were missing. She had forgotten to confirm the delivery, but instead of admitting her mistake, she turned on the volunteers.
“This is why I can’t trust anyone to follow through!” she fumed. “If I want something done right, I have to do it myself.”
But Cynthia couldn’t do it herself—not anymore.
Tammy was gone. Jack was muttering about quitting.
And the rest of us were too overwhelmed to clean up the mess she had created.
Cynthia stormed out, clipboard clutched to her chest like a shield, leaving us behind to pick up the pieces.
I don’t know what came over me. Maybe it was the way everyone looked so defeated, or the fact that Cynthia’s constant criticism had finally broken through my nerves.
Whatever it was, I stood up and clapped my hands.
“Okay, listen up,” I said, my voice steadier than I expected. “This dinner is happening, with or without Cynthia. Let’s get it done.”
The room went quiet, all eyes on me.
For a moment, I panicked, sure they’d dismiss me like Cynthia had. But then Jack nodded.
“What do you need?” he asked.
And just like that, we were a team. I divided tasks, keeping instructions simple and clear.
Tammy’s half-finished salad became a roasted vegetable platter.
Jack grabbed plain tablecloths from the storage closet, and we folded napkins into neat shapes to distract from the mismatched decor.
We even salvaged the burnt casserole, cutting away the blackened edges and reimagining it as “rustic potato bake.”
It wasn’t perfect, but it was ours.
A Different Kind of Helper
By the time the guests arrived, the dining hall was glowing. The candles we’d hastily arranged flickered warmly on the mismatched tablecloths, and the plates were set with care.
It wasn’t what Cynthia had envisioned—there were no perfectly plated vegetables or designer linens—but it worked. It was inviting, authentic, and it felt like us.
I stood at the back of the room, exhausted but proud. The volunteers moved with quiet confidence, serving trays of food and refilling glasses as laughter and conversation filled the air.
For the first time all day, there was no tension, no barking orders. Just a group of people coming together to create something meaningful.
Cynthia reappeared halfway through the event, clipboard in hand. Her eyes swept the room, pausing on the volunteers, the tables, and finally, the pastor seated at the head table.
Her expression shifted as she took in the smooth operation running entirely without her.
She walked briskly to the pastor, who was chatting with a guest.
From across the room, I could see her gesturing animatedly, her voice low but insistent. The pastor, calm and patient, listened before smiling and gesturing toward the kitchen, where the volunteers worked with an ease that belied the earlier chaos.
Cynthia’s face froze, and she turned, her gaze landing squarely on me. Clipboard clutched tightly, she strode across the room.
“So,” she said, her voice clipped, “you decided to take over?”
Before I could answer, Jack appeared beside me, carrying a tray of desserts.
“She saved us, Cynthia,” he said, his tone firm but calm. “If Maggie hadn’t stepped up, this whole thing would’ve been a disaster.”
Cynthia blinked, her mouth opening and closing like she was searching for the right words. Finally, she settled on, “I see. Well, I suppose teamwork is important.”
“Absolutely,” I said, offering a polite smile. “We couldn’t have done it without everyone pitching in.”
The pastor joined us just then, his voice cutting through the tension. “Maggie, this is wonderful,” he said warmly. “The guests are raving about the dinner. Your leadership tonight was truly inspiring.”
My face flushed. “It wasn’t just me,” I said quickly. “The whole team made this happen.”
But the pastor wasn’t done. He turned to the room, raising his glass to get everyone’s attention.
“Let’s take a moment to thank all the volunteers who worked so hard to make this event a success,” he said. “And let’s remember—true service isn’t about doing it all yourself. It’s about lifting others up and working together. Tonight, we’ve seen what that can achieve.”
The room erupted in applause.
Cynthia, still clutching her clipboard, forced a tight smile. But the flush creeping up her neck betrayed her frustration.
For the first time al day, she was truly silent.
A Humbling Moment
I heard the news a few days later. One of the other volunteers mentioned it casually, as if it were just another announcement in the church bulletin.
“Cynthia’s taking a break,” they said. “The pastor asked her to step back from leading the volunteers for a while. Said it might be good for her to focus on other ways to serve.”
The words hung in the air, somewhere between kindness and subtle reproach.
I thought of Cynthia clutching her clipboard that night, the way she had stood frozen in the doorway as we carried on without her.
It wasn’t exactly what I’d expected, but it felt right.
Cynthia had been given a chance to reflect—to step back and hopefully find the humility she’d lost somewhere along the way.
And maybe the next time she came back, she’d remember that helping wasn’t about control.
Sometimes, the best way to lead is to let go.