Seeds...

I assist my good friend V in teaching a 5th and 6th grade Sunday School class. By the time they finish their assembly and music time, we only have about 30 minutes left to teach. The task before us is daunting...our job is to introduce a seed of biblical truth into their lives in such a way that they are able to draw from it and make some meaningful life application. Then we leave it to God to see that the message takes root in the fertile soil of their hearts...it's all about planting seeds.

The kids in the class last Sunday were, as usual, a thousand wiggles...they passed gum and candy to each other underneath the table edge with every confidence that we hadn't seen. They cracked jokes and talked among themselves, and it seemed that we were never going to gain control of the class. Every question V asked brought something else to mind, they each had to have a chance to tell about the week. We heard about the ballgames, the friends, the silly things that happened at school...it was all but impossible to get, much less keep, their attention.

The lesson today was the Old Testament promise of a Savior. We try to make the kids understand that throughout the entire Old Testament, the main characters in the stories we tell each week could only look forward to the Cross. They had no history to reinforce their understanding of the miraculous gift of salvation. They had only their faith and trust in a coming King. We tell them again, that only in New Testament times did people begin to have the benefit of hearing the stories of Christ passed down from one believer to another from the perspectives of those who witnessed His preaching, teaching, and ministering throughout the countryside of Judea and on the shores of Gallilee. Is that even a concept they can understand? Sometimes, I think they don't "get it" unless it concerns sports or video games or the Disney channel...but who am I to question the power of God to reach inside the minds and hearts of His little ones? Still…it’s about the seeds.

The bell rings and we try to keep them all in place around the table for a dismissal prayer. V petitions the Lord to care for them throughout the coming week, and then, almost before the “amen” is spoken, they’re scrambling out the door. We look at each other…another opportunity to reach those young hearts has zipped past at the speed of light. The only thing that concerns us is "have we watered the seeds?"

"Lord, we know that we hold the responsibility of caretaking your little ones. We know that one may plant, and another may water, but it is You who gives the increase. Only Your Spirit can cultivate the frail seeds that we plant here into the lush and vibrant lives that You desire for them. Help us to plant and water your garden diligently, with pure hearts and patient hands."

"Later..."

What a rare treat I had on Sunday! KP actually sat next to me at the early service! Most Sundays, when we enter the choir loft, I see him sitting with his friends in the balcony. Singing in the choir gives me a great vantage point…though I’m sure everyone in the congregation can see me raising my eyebrow at him (the old hairy eyeball trick) if I see him “visiting.” All in all, he’s a good kid…he’s been taught how to behave in church from the time he was a toddler.

All week long I watch him alternate between the raucous, rowdy sixth-grader who's too busy to sit and talk to mom, and the little boy who still wants to stretch out across my lap for a quick back scratch before bedtime. I have to confess that I miss my snuggly boy when he rushes thru homework and dinner to spend the last scraps of the afternoon outside, scootering up and down the street, visiting with his buddies around the corner for those few frantic moments between daylight and dark, negotiating for a few more minutes before the bedtime ritual of shower and toothbrushing. After he’s at long last given in to us and it’s time for “lights out,” he goes to his bedroom, and starts to turn on the TV, and every urging is met with the ever-present whine, "later...later..."

Although I find myself scolding my child for this, I see that we all spread ourselves so thin that we rarely take the time to just sit together and enjoy our family and our home. Then, if that's not bad enough, we seem to struggle in our “busy-ness” and give God only what's left at the end of our daylight, and at the end of our energy, and at the end of our consciousness...and generally, that's precious little. I can only imagine how God must feel when He sees us scurrying here and there, constantly negotiating for more time for our own pursuits, constantly replying, "later...later..."

“Father, You watch me and wait for me to come to You for rest, for strength, for help in my time of need. You are faithful…always there for me when I need You, and even when I think I don’t. Forgive me when I sometimes put You off. You know how I foolishly think I can invite You into my life whenever I have time for You, when You already hold my life in the hollow of Your hand. You patiently wait for me to realize that You’ve been drawing me close all along.”

Broken Pieces...

I remember it like it was yesterday…a beautiful white jewelry box given to me for my 8th birthday and I adored it! When the box was opened, two velvet-lined ring trays would swing out to either side, and a tiny ballerina with a pink tutu would spring up and twirl to the melody of “Beautiful Dreamer.” Over and over and over I watched her dance. In time, however, the ballerina began to lean ever more precariously to one side, and her once graceful dance became some awkward, thumping sideways rotation. Soon, the entire spring mechanism failed, and the poor little thing plunged straight to the bottom of the pink-lined box.

In tears, I laid my broken treasure before my dad, who was extremely talented in all things mechanical. His only downfall was his scientific mind…before he could put something back in order, he was compelled by some inner drive to take the thing completely apart—every nut, bolt, and spring. He had to see for himself how it worked! As the poor little ballerina now lay in the midst of dozens of little metal thing-a-ma-jigs in the middle of my mom’s kitchen table, I was certain that she was headed for the great junk pile in the sky! I simply could not envision my music box resurrected from this confusing pile of parts.

But, as he eyed every single piece and studied the tiny motor that made the whole thing work, he slowly and deliberately reassembled the mechanism, tightening every screw. I leaned hard against his shoulder as he worked...watching...waiting…and finally, there she was, atop her little perch, en pointe, and ready to dance.

To this day, when my life seems to be unraveling, and all the pieces seem to be in disarray, I think about that music box, bewildered as to how my fix-it dad could possibly make it whole again. Once again, I come to the point that I can do nothing else but bring the broken pieces of my life before my Heavenly Father. "Please fix it, Daddy," is my heart’s cry…

"Lord, you already know how all the pieces fit together. You are the Master Craftsman, the Maker of all things, who knit me together in my mother’s womb, who decided to give me the diamond-shaped birthmark in the small of my back and attached those funny little eyelashes right in the corners of my eyes. You decided the melodies that would play in my heart and throughout my life. I can do nothing without Your touch…only YOU can put everything back together and make it all work. I recognize that, and I lean hard against Your shoulder...watching...waiting…"