Lessons from Childlike Faith

When I was a little girl, we took prayer requests each week in Sunday School. If I close my eyes, and inhale deeply, I can be there in just a few seconds. The walls are made of cinderblocks, painted white, layers of paint, usually peeling in places. The pictures are cut outs from various Sunday School publications, some of them have probably been there since my own parents were children. On the back of the door, when it’s closed, there is a mimeographed sheet with Psalm 1 written on it, complete with stick figures to help you memorize the progression of the passage … “Blessed is the man who WALKETH not … STANDETH not … SITTETH not …” I picture that page in my head each time I think on that passage. It’s interesting the things one remembers from childhood. We must have been in second or third grade by that time. We sat in metal folding chairs at a long banquet table that took up most of the room. There was a single window and some thin, faded curtains that must have been cheery in their prime. It was in this room we learned about Jesus. We learned about spending time with Him, trusting Him, memorizing His Word, and talking to Him. Prayer must have been the most important thing I learned in that room. I remember taking time each week to ask for the things we wanted most for God to do. Every week I asked for the same thing. I asked God to help my Pappy to quit smoking and to go to church. Pappy had worked shift work for many years, staying up nights and sleeping through the days. Each time I went to visit him and Mimi in Corpus Christi, it bothered my little heart so very much that he never got up to go to church with us on Sundays. I knew he needed to be there to keep learning about Jesus just like I did. I also knew that when he was awake, he smoked. His house, his clothes, his truck, everything about him reeked of it. I knew it had been a source of contention between him and my mother when she was growing up there. She had told me stories about how she would hide in her room until just before her dates came to pick her up, then dash through the house, hoping to avoid the scent that seemed to hang on everything it touched. I don’t honestly recall if I was aware of the health risks for smokers at that time, or if I was just worried about his soul, since non of the church going men that I knew at the time were smokers. Well, if they were, they were most certainly backslidden. You know, my other grandmother used to always tell us that we didn’t “smoke, drink or chew or go with those who do!” I knew I was going to heaven, and I wanted Pappy to go with me.
I eventually promoted out of that Sunday School room to a different one down the hall where I remember spending time learning about missionaries, and I eventually quit asking God to get Pappy to church or to quit smoking. I figured He’d already said “No” since nothing seemed different when I went for visits to Mimi and Pappy’s. When I got to Junior High, we moved from South Texas to Plano, and somewhere along the way Pappy retired from shift work. He began sleeping nights like the rest of us and I actually got to see him during the day when I was there. Then, when I was in high school, the diagnosis came. Cancer … of the lung, of course. None of us could say we were surprised, but we were saddened just the same. But, there were treatments, and Pappy pursued them. He ceased smoking immediately. Mimi told me many years later that he smoked one last one, then never said another word about it. He was just done. I’m not sure along what timeline all these things occurred, but I remember going to Corpus Christi for a visit one weekend late in my high school years. I had heard about the changes in Pappy, but it still surprised me to see him up and dressed in a suit and tie that Sunday morning. But, when it came time to go, he wasn’t there. I asked Mimi about it. She smiled, “He’s gone on early to greet the old ladies and help them from their cars.” And, as we pulled into the parking lot, sure enough, there he was to help us from our cars and usher us into the sanctuary. For the next twelve years, I am not certain he missed many Sundays serving in that way unless he was out of town or very ill.
I’m a slow learner, and it was many years later that I was thinking about prayer and the unique ways that God answers prayer when it dawned on me. I closed my eyes, pictured that cinderblock Sunday School room and remembered the earnest prayers of a child. God did hear me, and He had answered.
Pappy’s cancer came back last year. By the time he was diagnosed, it was beyond treatment. He died peacefully just three weeks later. I saw him a week before he died. When my suitcase was packed and loaded in the car, I headed back to his room to tell him goodbye. Pappy was always a hugger, but never terribly articulate about his feelings for his family. As I knelt by his bed, he pulled me into a bear hug with strength I didn’t know he still possessed, and whispered in my ear, “You know I love you.” He pushed me back and looked into my eyes, chocolate brown eyes that always reminded him of his mother who died when he was twelve, and he said it again, “I love you.” That was it. There was nothing more to say. I hugged him again. Told him I loved him, too, and headed for the car. The following week at his funeral, I had the opportunity to speak with Mr. Wright, the man who was responsible for inviting Pappy back to church and involving him in the greeter’s ministry. I told him about that Sunday School room and my childlike faith. I told him that God answered my prayers, and that I knew that the first answer was lung cancer. That first round of cancer and treatment that made Pappy quit smoking gave us 12 more years with him. The second answer was Mr. Right. His friendship and persistent encouragement helped Pappy find his place in the Body of Christ.