Opinion

One of my earliest memories of church when I was a little girl was peering over the rows of pews in front of me to watch our pastor passionately slap the pulpit with his hand. His tears flowed freely as he begged sinners to come to Jesus. When the sermon ended, our small town church people started milling around, hugging, chatting, no one in a real hurry to get home to their dinner tables. I decided that I would put my head down and search for my dad, using only the style of the men’s shoes as a guide. I was playing a game by myself, testing my own knowledge of my dad’s well-worn brown dress shoes. Finally, I spotted the familiar feet of my dear old dad and impulsively grabbed his hand, thinking nothing of it. It was only then that I looked up to see the very surprised face of my elementary school principal. He smiled warmly at me and held onto my hand as if it were an every day occurrence. I left church that day thinking about those two men in particular: my teary-eyed pastor and my smiling principal. About passion for Jesus. About kindness and comfort.