The Sunday School Ladies

I can recite every name by heart: Mrs. Saltz, Mrs. Merriman, Mrs. Scott, Mrs. Molitor, and of course, the never-flappable Mrs. DeVoog; the ladies who cared for me and my fellow Sunday Schoolers week in and week out for what seemed like a lifetime. What’s striking to me is not that they were saintly or revolutionary people—it’s that I have become one of them.

I have become that lady who warmly greets the elementary school kids as they start their Sunday morning at church, who looks each one in the eye and deeply asks how they are—not only asking, but pausing enough to hear an answer. I notice if they have a cut or a scrape or if they don’t seem quite themselves this morning. I look and I watch because I see myself in each one of them.

I was the too-skinny little girl who was always sort of quiet and sad. Sad because she couldn’t figure out why mom and dad were divorcing when she was five years old. Quiet because she somehow knew deep down that it was secretly her fault. And yearning to be in church because she thought if she could pray hard enough and long enough, they would be a whole family again.

I remember entering the cool quiet refuge of the Sunday School domain: The small, neat tables lined with tubs of crayons, white paste, and rubber cement glue; cinderblock walls painted white with trite pictures of Jesus and embroidered scriptures. Every room was perfumed with deep, earthy basement smells compounded by the glare of fluorescent lights. It was simple and too bright, but cheery nonetheless.

Sunday School was my place of peace. It was my sacred ground, where I knew exactly and precisely what would happen; there was a sense of security knowing that snack would be followed by singing, then a lesson, a crafting session, and ultimately a nice meal or doughnuts. All along the way would be those ladies, asking me how I was, encouraging me, noticing if I did something well, praising me for any iota of wonder they could find.

The Sunday School Ladies never really spoke any magic sort of words or offered up holy wisdom. Yes, they taught me to memorize the books of the Bible, to understand the really important stories of Noah, Adam and Eve, Moses, and Jonah. Yet the thing I remember is their presence: An eclectic collection of ordinary ladies being truly present to a bunch of unruly kids who probably needed a good bath and spanking. They patiently showed up to take care of us. We weren’t their kids, yet they lovingly, graciously cared for us, mindfully tending our souls.

I think about them when I feel like my being in church with the kids doesn’t matter; when the kids in Sunday School are so loud that they can’t hear one thing that I say; when I feel like my creative ideas, neat messages, and fun ways to share the stories of the Bible are completely lost on them. I think that there has to be someone better than I who can actually teach these kids anything.

Then, slowly the reminder of the ladies comes back—they weren’t amazing; they didn’t have DVDs, high-tech songs, or Internet programming to keep us entertained. They gave us all they knew—by offering their time and their love.

I’m sure they have no idea how much they taught me. I bet they couldn’t imagine what wonder and peace they bestowed on a young girl yearning for stability, or what seeds of hope and faith they had sown so long ago that continue to turn up unexpected things.

Unexpected things like the surprise of my becoming a Sunday School Lady. To continue their legacy of planting those tiny pearls of faith in the kids that now cross my path. To echo their words that each one of us is loved in such unexpected ways.