The process always began on Saturday evening. If something needed to be ironed, out came the old wood-legged ironing board my mother received as a wedding present. The surface was stacked with decades of re-padding, but its form was narrow, which made it so much easier for my little hands to maneuver sleeves and cuffs at the “pointy” end. With my ensemble in order and laid out over a corner chair, off to bed I went.

Sunday morning came early because we always went to Sunday School. Our family would arrive at the church building first because my father had the keys. In my small world, it seemed as if my dad had keys to every building in our town. Once inside, my mother would lift a large flannel-covered board onto an easel and begin populating it with colorful figures of robed men, dark-haired woman, furry animals, leafy shrubs, and irregular rocks, boulders, and stones (there always seemed to be an abundance of the latter). I loved etching the outlines of the colorfully attired men and women with my fingertips as my mother set up chairs for the other children who would soon be arriving.

I have many wonderful memories of my mother, but the ones permanently impressed in my mind involve the Bible and Jesus. When my mother taught the Bible, it was always about Jesus. She told Bible stories as if she had been among the crowds observing the things Jesus said and did. But no matter what book she taught from, Jesus our Savior stood front and center as the main point of the story.

There’s a few books I listen to over and over again as I run. At present, I’m finishing J. C. Ryle’s book Holiness. The following quote took me back to my childhood days in Sunday School. The older I get, the more thankful to God I am for my parents who introduced me to Jesus.


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