Short Stories
My lessons began on a warm June day in 2001. It would be the only day that week that I would help teach Vacation Bible School at Paul the Apostle Lutheran Church, and when the two-hour class came to a close, I was relieved. The children who attended were rough and boisterous, toughened by everyday life in Southwest Detroit, and were often heard swearing at adults in Spanish. I was shy, and at a loss for what to say to them.
Nearly four years before, I had been confirmed, symbolizing that I was a mature Christian and a member not only of our tiny congregation, but of Christ’s universal church. Still, I was afraid to show the love God had shown me to others. My family had attended church for my entire life, and I had known from an early age that God’s Son, Jesus, had died for my sins. Yet I could not comprehend a God whose kindness knew no bounds, and did not understand how a Light so perfect could dwell in a heart so dark as mine. Beneath my outward faith lay a refusal to trust in the infallible and unconditional love of God, and I feared I was too inadequate to serve Him. How could I teach others of a Savior who could not fail, when I believed He would fail me?
VBS the following year came and went in much the same way, with me making no attempt to hide my reluctance to interact with those whom I was supposed to help. When it was time again for VBS in 2003, I dreaded the idea of spending four more two-hour sessions helping tame the troubled youngsters with awkward insecurity. Yet somehow, that year’s VBS proved to be far different from those previous. I laughed when a child, having been asked who Abraham’s wife was, gave his usual response to all such questions: “God.” I nearly cried when the same child begged to live in the church rather than return to his squalid home. Perhaps I had finally begun to understand their plight, which included everything from poverty and inadequate education to a neighborhood infinitely more dangerous than my own. Perhaps I had finally begun to see the undeniable charm behind their guarded words, and the need for love, so like my own, in their eyes. Either way, from that point on, I forgot my insufficiencies and opened my heart enough to learn.
I decided to see them more often. Each week, I helped with a midweek “Sunday” school that most of the VBS students attended. Slowly, with the help of God, I shed my shyness, and bridged the enormous culture gap between us with such ease that I realized its insignificance. Gradually, I developed a hunger for the knowledge I gained form them, knowledge of how to hold on to such faith as theirs, of how to forgive others—and myself—unconditionally, and knowledge of a peace that surpassed all bitterness, despite their seemingly hopeless circumstances. When, for example, I found that cuts and bruises had appeared far too frequently on a four-year-old boy, I plunged into the reality that my little teachers suffered through each day. Countless clues flowed from the child’s words and actions, and though my pastor and I both called Child Services regarding the apparent abuse, we quickly saw that little would be done. It seemed that after months of working with the children, I had given my time to no avail; I felt more powerless now than ever before.
However, my instruction was still just beginning, for my students once again turned my heart. They cared for me when I thought caring was useless, and smiled through their pain with an innocence that could not fathom what they underwent each day. Only then did I understand that God did not send the children of Paul the Apostle into my life simply that I may teach them how to live, but that I may be taught how to love.
p.s. If you wish to contact me, please email me at [email protected]. I do not use the private messenger. Thank you!
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