One of the most poignant memories residing within me, and
involving life and ministry occurred almost four decades hence.
My wife and I were newly married, and serving as children’s
pastors at the same church at which we still attend. And thanks to the efforts
of my brother-in-law and sister-in-law, we enjoyed a ready-made audience. For
Clarence and Sue had previously canvassed a nearby mobile home park, and faithfully
transported our young parishioners to the church on an old white school bus.
I will never forget that yellow plywood puppet stage, decorated
with colorful representations of Kermit the Frog and Miss Piggy, and from
whence I conducted my tailor-made, biblically-based childish renditions. Two
sock puppets, each with their own name, and each endowed with a distinct voice
and accent.
And, of course, what would any children’s church be without its
rousing songs?
“Father Abraham had many sons. Many sons had Father Abraham. And I
am one of them, and so are you, so let’s just praise the Lord!”
Nowadays, sock puppets, and songs such as “Father Abraham” have
“gone the way of all flesh,” as black lights, and music videos on overhead
screens have ushered them off the proverbial stage.
Pt. 2
However, (as I previously implied) my memory of all memories
involves our (successful) attempt to recruit neighborhood children; whose homes
surrounded the church.
I can’t say I had ever heard of such a strange and wonderful
thing, but one day it occurred to me to “put on” the shin-dig of all
shin-dig’s. At least, what I had in mind was nothing like the Bartow Church of
God had ever done before, (nor ever done again).
On this particular Sunday morning, my wife and I, and several
volunteers set up eight or ten of those wood-grain, collapsible tables on the
tree shrouded front lawn of the church, laid fifty plastic egg carton lids end
to end, and taped them securely together.
And then, a few minutes before our forty-something little
parishioners were released from Sunday School, we grabbed twelve or fifteen
(pre-meditated) cartons of vanilla, strawberry and chocolate ice cream from the
kitchen freezer, and proceeded to drop colorful scoops of the stuff inside the
fifty foot plastic trough.
Having completed this delightful task, we sprayed this tri-color
delicacy with whipped cream, and with a generous sprinkling of nuts. And of
course, an ice cream sundae cannot rightfully be called an ice cream sundae
without a cherry on top. (And there was no shortage of that rich red fruit).
As the children were directed out of the nearest door, and
witnessed one of the most amazing sights in their young lives, they were almost
beside themselves with giddiness. And no one had to beg them to find a spot
behind a table, pick up a spoon, and “go to work” on that inviting concoction
which lay before them.
(And I can honestly say, they did an admirable job of it)!
Pt. 3
I still have a couple of photographs of the foregoing event.
(Funny, how a picture captures a moment in time which, once having been lived,
can never be replicated).
I see my own children scattered along that one-sided, long line of
hungry ice cream eaters. Each and every one among them stare greedily downward
towards their creamy ambition; some with spoons (eternally) raised “between
heaven and earth.”
Adult volunteers, a few who have long since gone on to their
reward, standing on the near side of that creamy buffet; dutifully cleaning up
the drippy mess, opening the few remaining cartons of the creamy stuff, and
hastily filling up the spaces which appear along the human ice cream trough.
The pastoral counseling office which I now occupy is located in
the same hallway as the room in which those little children once sat, belted
out songs like, “Father Abraham,” and clapped and screamed to the antics of
those little sock puppets. (I have so often wondered what became of that old
puppet stage).
From time to time I open that non-descript wooden door, step
across the threshold, and reminisce a bit. I like to believe the way we did it
at that time was “for such a time as this.” And I like to think we influenced
our little charges for good and for God. (If the numbers and enthusiasm was any
indication at all, we did).
Though I have long since forgotten most of their names, I remember
their faces, and I still pray for those dear little children who are, by now,
married, have children and grandchildren of their own; (and are greying about
their temples).
As those of us who are now nearing that heavenly threshold, and
make way for those who follow, I can only hope they are impacting them whom God
sets along their pathways,
…as we once attempted to impact them.
by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily
Diary, Vol. 83. Copyright pending
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