Thinking Out Loud, Volume DVII

There's not much I can remember about being five. In fact, maybe I was four...or six. It was definitely one of those years, but what I recall so clearly is what my dad wore to church that Sunday morning. It was a white shirt and dark gray pants. Between those two garments, it's the pants that are pictured so clearly in my mind, because after all, when the top of my head only reached the level of his pockets, his pants were all I could see without purposely looking up. When church was over and everyone was standing around talking, I focused on those gray pants to make sure I stayed near my dad. Finally, the gray pants headed for the door, and I followed. I knew where we had parked, because we always parked there, but the gray pants went a different direction, and walked to another car. That's when I looked up and realized I had followed Milton Paul to HIS car. He was a good man and a close friend to my family, yet he wasn't my dad, and I wasn't supposed to go home with him, but he and my dad had worn the same colors that day! A feeling of panic swept over me and I literally ran back inside and found the right gray pants and white shirt. One more incident: This one didn't involve me, but I heard the adults talking about it and they smiled as they spoke about the innocent faith of a child. We had been without rain for weeks, and the situation was getting desperate, with most of the conversation among the adults centered around that topic. In the home of a family who were some of our best friends, it was even discussed between the mother and her little boy, who was a couple years younger than me. He suggested they pray for rain. His mother told him that was a good idea, and so they prayed. What he did next was the same thing I would've done, which was the same thing most any small child would do: He went to the window and started watching the sky. The problem with growing up is that somewhere between those preschool and high school years, that innocent faith too often begins to evaporate and is replaced with doubt and skepticism. We can tell the six year old about Noah and the ark, and he believes it, while adults will question the practicality of such a story. I have a good friend who showed me a note she had found that was written by her seven year old daughter that said, "Daddy, Jesus loves you and he understands you. He wants you to be nice all the time. Jesus forgives you." (Incidentally, her daddy IS nice all the time.) I was so struck by that note that I had to say, "Way to go Mom and Dad! You're doing it right!" What can her parents do to make sure that beautiful little girl's faith stays with her into adulthood? Just keep doing what they've been doing and don't let up. Be consistent. When it comes to "training up a child in the way he should go...," we can't take breaks; the stakes are too high. Children have no say as to which home they're born into, or who their parents are. Shame on me if I don't thank God every day for parents who taught me the importance of prayer; for parents who not only knew the Word, but taught it to me as well; for parents who taught me by example the importance of regularly attending and getting involved in church; and for parents who never grew lax in any of the above principles. Now, I have to ask myself, "Will my kids be able to thank God for me consistently teaching them the same thing?" I've come a long way since the Sunday morning I followed the wrong pair of dark gray pants out to the wrong car, but there are some aspects of my childhood I pray I never lose. May I always hold on to the sincere, unwavering faith of my childhood, and may I pass it on down to the next generation. May I never forget the lesson I learned at the age of five: If I discover I've been following the wrong pair of gray pants, all I have to do is remember the words of my little seven year old friend, "Jesus loves you and he understands you..," and I can always turn around and run back inside and find the right ones. Preston