This week I turn another year older, and as I reflect on how I got where I am, I think of people like this lady.
Her name was Grace Short, but she should have been called Grace Long because she was so long on grace! This gentle Southern lady in her seventies was my junior high Sunday School teacher. Week after week she came into our class with the patience of Job and the persistence of the Apostle Paul. She needed them both to tackle a class full of antsy adolescents.
When my parents divorced, my mom had to take a job waiting tables at a local restaurant. With my dad gone and my mother working so much of the time, ladies like Mrs. Short came to mean more to me than I would have ever imagined. This graceful lady was soft-spoken and gentle, and no one in my life was like that. Her white hair rested against her wrinkled cheeks, but she always looked put-together with her pearl necklace and matching earrings. She carried a lily-white hankie to dab her eyes as she cried easily when she shared Bible stories that clearly meant so much to her. When she got excited about Esther’s courage or Saul’s transformation on the Damascus road, she talked about having “chill bumps.” She always called me “Sugah” or “Darlin’,” and I felt like I could trust her.
Mrs. Short showed up each Sunday in our class with a lesson she had clearly spent hours preparing for a bunch of wired-up kids that didn’t seem to be listening. But I was. I hung on her every word. This committed teacher shared scriptures, illustrations, and my favorite—personal stories. To be honest, I came as much to be around her as I did to hear what she had to say.
One Sunday morning after class, she asked me to wait for her. I had been asking questions all morning about the stories she was telling us, and this caring teacher faithfully answered all of my questions, never making me feel dumb for asking. After class she motioned for me to follow her to the church library. We walked up the stairs to a small room just off the entrance. It was lined floor-to-ceiling with books. After riffling through the dust-filled shelves, she pulled off a tattered paperback, Good News For Modern Man, Bible and handed it to me.
“I’m so sorry,” she offered with her sweet Southern drawl. “This is all I could find.”
“Find for what,” I responded, not knowing what she had in mind.
“To give to you, of course.”
“Do I get to keep this?” I asked not believing my ears.
“You asked so many questions that I thought you would enjoy reading the stories for yourself,” she stated with a broad smile.
“Yes, ma’am!” I thanked her profusely.
On the walk home I found myself in awe of the woman’s kindness. Why would she care this much for me? I wondered.
I read fifty pages of my new Bible before my next Sunday School class, and at the time, I wasn’t a fast reader at all. I couldn’t get enough of the stories that my teacher enjoyed so much.
The next Sunday, Mrs. Short told me before class she wanted me to meet her on the steps of the church. I was still in awe of last week’s caring gesture. What could she have in store for me now? I thought as I headed to the church entrance after class. There I met Mr. Laxton, a tall friendly retired pastor from the congregation who was serving as our Sunday School superintendent.
“Grace told me how glad you were when she found a paperback Bible for you in the church library. I thought you might really enjoy this one,” he said handing me a red leather-bound Bible with my name engraved on the front.
I was too stunned to speak. Tears filled my eyes. “This is for me?” was all I could choke out.
“Has your name on the front,” he chuckled. You can thank Mrs. Short for that. She was so excited about your desire to learn, she wanted to make sure you had a way to do that.”
Now I was the one dabbing tears from my eyes as Mrs. Short leaned over hugged me and said, “O, Sugah, don’t it just give you chill bumps?”
That was fifty years ago and now I am the gray-haired granny sharing stories each week at church with children and adults alike. My husband and I have pastored a growing church in California for the past twenty-seven years, and I only pray that I can be half the committed, caring, and grace-filled teacher that Grace Short was for me.