I vividly remember all of those Sunday mornings almost thirty years ago. The paint in the room was forever being touched up, leaving me with a perpetual sting in my nose. The linoleum was chipped in more places than not, and my big Sunday School room could easily be partitioned into several smaller rooms with the rickety accordion divider. Didn’t all churches in the eighties use accordion dividers?
My classmates were the same boys and girls I had grown up with through nursery. The boy who always answered every question first. The super blonde kid who was picked up by the church bus every Sunday morning and dropped off at home every Sunday afternoon. I never met his parents. The brunette girl who never let me have the markers I wanted to use to color in the shepherd staff or Jesus’ beard. My best friend in Sunday School, the girl who I sat next to in class every week. We were all there.
Our teacher was a woman in her early thirties. Back then, perms were the way to wear your hair and she was no exception. She often wore a long cotton skirt and some kind of sleeveless shirt. Our old church building didn’t have air conditioning and our upstairs Sunday School rooms could be sweltering. Hot to the point of summoning ancient smells from the water damaged ceiling tiles.
I remember how strong her arms were as she led us in games and held high the weekly teaching picture. Every week she would gather us in a circle and read to us from the Bible. I learned about how God created the Earth and everything in it. I listened about Noah and how his family had to board that huge boat in order to survive the flood. I remember being baffled when she explained the Tower of Babel to us. Did those people really think they could build a tower to reach God? As years went on, she revealed more to me about Jesus and His word.
My Sunday School teacher always explained things to us at our level. It wasn’t complicated or overly drawn out. I never learned about great theologians, historical controversies or latin root words. I learned about a man named Jesus and how wonderful He was. I heard about what He did for me on the cross. I put my faith in Him and a seed was planted that, over the years, has continued to grow.
My Sunday School teacher wasn’t magical. As a matter of fact, I found out years later that she had only become a Christian a few years before beginning to teach our class. What she taught us about the Bible was all she knew. It wasn’t profoundly deep, but the impact was.
Her life, much like mine today, was busy. She had several children at home, a part-time job, other commitments, and ample reasons to not help with my Sunday School class. I believe her one reason to say yes far outweighed all of the reasons to say no. My Sunday School teacher was my mom.
Even as a new Believer, she understood how critical, imperative, vital, essential, and necessary it was to plant the seed of the gospel in the hearts of her children and her children’s friends.
Was it convenient? I doubt it.
Was it exhausting? Most likely.
Was it difficult? No more so than any other task we’re asked to step up to as adults.
Was it rewarding? I say yes. Eternally yes.
I was once the little girl in Sunday School who cried when the boy behind me yanked my ponytail... again. I was the girl in Sunday School who had to go to the bathroom five minutes after entering the room. I was the girl in Sunday School who asked my teacher to tie my shoes multiple times in one class period. But most importantly, I was the girl in Sunday School who received a gift. A gift of time, a gift of patience, a gift of deliberate dedication. My mom, as busy as she was, said yes and for that, I’m forever grateful.
Children are a heritage from the LORD, offspring a reward from him. Pslam 127:3