Backstory:
My dad was the pastor of a small, Southern Baptist church in Renton, Washington. The church was called, Trinity Baptist, and was all about loving people of every walk of life and serving one another. I learned at an early age the importance of embracing people in spite of their imperfections, regardless of how much money they made, their political affiliations, or the color of their skin. Being a part of God's family, meant loving others, warts and all.
Sunday mornings meant cold cereal, sleeping in sponge rollers so I would have curls for the day, a Sunday School lesson, church, warm hugs, and more kisses than I wanted from a handful of adopted grandmothers. Since my own grandparents lived thousands of miles away in Texas, the elderly women from the "Naomi Class" seemed to fill this void.
As our little church grew, we began running out of Sunday School class space and so it was decided that our basement would hold the weekly widow's Sunday School class. Our home, also called the parsonage, was a hop, skip, and a jump from the church and so it made for an easy trek to and from church.
One perk was that our basement was light and airy. The tip of the basement had a high window that let in sunlight from the front of the house, but in the back there was a full size sliding glass door that made the room full of natural light.
Since the members of the Naomi Class were planning a trip to the Holy Land, our basement was an ideal place to begin their nine month, in-depth study of the Holy Land.
A paint-by-number kit of the Holy Land, purchased with Sunday School funds, was set to chronicle their studies as these precious women prepared their hearts and minds for this once-in-a-lifetime pilgrimage.
Yes, the world was my oyster that summer day. The paints, the map, the clean, unused brushes begged to be brought to life with all the color and splendor it so deserved. One angel's voice whispered, "Paint just a corner of the ocean blue and no one will notice." The other angel warned, "Remember what your mom and dad told you? Run away...before it's too late!"
I decided that I liked the first angel's advice better and so I picked up a small vial of paint, took the lid off, dabbed a brush into the paint, and selected the number 14. The map evolved into what can only be described as a patchwork, calico-style painting interrupted with glimpses of splatter paint that resembled something more from outer space over any landform on earth.
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| Not the actual map (for display only) |
Unfortunately, my artistic inspiration, fueled by unbridled passion, left paint on my shorts, shirt, elbows, cheeks, the floor, the table, and every square inch of the paint-by-number map.
It took several weeks to raise enough money doing extra chores and some money my parents pitched in to order a new Holy Land map from the Moody Bible Institute out of Chicago.
I also claimed that my brother, Brad, was as guilty as I was because he clapped and laughed when he saw me with paint on my hands and face (and that was after two baths and scrubbing with soap until my skin was red). However, he was pardoned given the fact that he had no paint on himself and my parents claimed was "too young to be an accomplice."
I'm pleased to say the widows of Naomi's class trip to the Holy Land went off without a hitch. The second map was far more boring than mine, but who am I to judge? The women returned beaming as if they'd seen heaven, itself. And I think they felt so sad for me since I was crying and visibly shaken when I had to tell them about their map and what I had done.
As a token of their love for me, they returned with a tiny gift. It was a necklace containing a vial with a mustard seed inside of it. I wasn't too impressed until they told me that if my faith was as big as that little seed (which is a little bigger than the size of a period at the end of a sentence), I could move mountains.
Seven months after receiving my mustard seed necklace, my brother, Brad, passed away unexpectedly. He had gone to the doctor for a well baby check-up and shots, and caught an aggressive form of meningitis from an unsterilized needle that had been used on an infected child in the next room. Brad was placed in the hospital and died in the wee hours of the night. The belief that I will see him again someday, has kept my faith strong.
My confession is that it's taken years to figure out how a tiny mustard seed can represent faith. But then it came to me that it isn't about the size. The power of faith is in the potential of the seed. It's the explosive, living power of hope and belief in what can't be seen and believing that it is. Faith isn't believing in superstition or old wives' tales. It is standing on the promises of God.
Truly I tell you, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, 'Move from here to there,' and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you." Matthew 17:20
Got faith? Check out this link! Do you have mustard seed faith?
Confession Reflection:
1. What does faith mean to you? Describe a time in your life you've had to lean on your faith.
2. Why is it important to have faith? Why do you think faith is compared to a mustard seed?
3. Is there a mountain in your life that you need to move? What is it?
4. Research shows that "hope" is a predictor of learner success. Do you agree or disagree with this finding? Give your reasoning.
