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My first recollection of God is the teaching my mother gave me when I was
about three. I can still remember the small house we lived in, the grassy
yard, the old tree in the back yard. It was on a quiet street, tucked
neatly between other neighborhood streets and the highway that separated
us from the industrial district.
My parents were not church-going folks, nor were they actively religious
in any way. I have no childhood memories of seeing my dad in church. And I
remember my mom going only on rare occasions. My mom had run away from her
California home when she was 16 years old, hitchhiking out to Texas. My
dad had been raised on a dirt farm in Arkansas, taken out of school before
he could learn to read, so that he could help keep the place going.
Mom had found work on Galveston Island for a while, in the dark vicinity
of the gambling district. At one point she became very ill, almost to the
point of death. And when she finally recovered, she left Galveston and
took a job at a drive-in hamburger place in Pasadena. My dad was working
nearby at a full-service gas station. They met when he ordered lunch one
day and she brought it down to the shop.
They dated for a little while and then decided to get married. Nearly two
years later, I was born.
My dad's parents were Southern Baptists. They went to church several times
a year. They believed in God and in His Son, Jesus Christ. But they were
not very religious around the house. My grandfather's brother was a lot
more religious, all the time. I remember visiting with them when I was
still a very young boy. They often talked to family members about God.
Most of my aunts and uncles were not active Christians. They were all good
people in their own way, but not religious. My dad's brother was an
alcoholic. I remember a nice Pontiac he bought. It was white. He got drunk
one weekend and painted it maroon -- with an extra wide paintbrush he'd
been using earlier to paint houses. I can still see the long, horizontal
strokes, runs and all, going from the front to the back of that nice car.
Dad thought it was funny. But my aunt was not amused.
My dad would soon end up spending more weekends in jail that at home. He
would work hard all week and then he would get paid every Friday. He would
stop at the bar for a quick drink. And that's where he so often got stuck.
My mom's folks had not raised her to be a Christian believer. I'm sure
they believed that there was a God. Her dad was a Merchant Marine, and was
often gone for many months at a time. My grandmother in California was
always active in many kinds of social activities. She was outgoing and
fun-loving. She sold Avon cosmetics for a while. She had gentlemanly
friends over for dinner, from time to time. And she told fortunes, using
tea leaves and other props.
I can't recall just why Mom ran away from home at the age of 16, but I
know that even in her darkest hours in Texas, she never looked back. Well,
almost never. Her mother paid her way home, by train, when I was almost
two. And we visited there for a little while. And then, when I was four or
five, her parents came out to Texas and visited with us for a week or two.
I liked them a lot. I was so unhappy when they left that I wouldn't say
goodbye. I hid in my room until they were on their way down the little
street. Then I came out and waved through my tears.
Mom and Dad both smoked quite a bit. The early morning routine for them
was coffee and cigarettes. At lunch Mom would have a cup of coffee, or
sometimes a Coke with me, and a cigarette. And if she had company over
during the day, they shared more coffee and cigarettes. And after supper,
they would have still more coffee and cigarettes.
They also drank other things with their friends, but Mom could never
handle the alcohol -- not even as well as Dad. She would get silly and
loud very quickly. And then usually pass out. So she soon got to where she
seldom drank, except to be polite. She would sip at whatever was made
available.
Things did not work out for my parents. I saw less and less of Dad. By the
time I was six, Mom and Dad were separated. They divorced when I was
seven. Dad went deeper into his addiction to alcohol, and Mom did the best
she could to get by. After about a year, Mom remarried.
The earliest memory I have of God is my mother's teaching. Mom was the one
who taught me many things. We were not well off, financially. But Mom
always made sure that I had children's storybooks (I still remember the
Little Golden Books, Mother Goose, and more). She taught me nursery
rhymes, and told me stories. She took me to see Sleeping Beauty, Bambi,
and other children's favorites. She taught me how to count, how to write
my name, how to tell time. And when I was still very small, she told me a
few important things about God.
As I've already said, I was about three. I remember that I was playing in
the back yard. The lawn was grassy and had nice shade. One old tree (a
willow or cottonwood, I think) on the edge of the yard was low enough to
tempt me into climbing. Since I was so small, the tree was still not quite
suitable for climbing. The fat, twisted trunk forked into two great
branches just out of my reach. I must have indicated an interest in the
tree before, because my mother had already told me not to climb it. On
this pleasant day, however, I decided I would try to climb it anyway. One
reason is that a small step ladder had been left near the tree.
I pulled and scooted the ladder through the lush grass, until it finally
rested against the wide trunk. And then I struggled up the first two
steps. That's about as far as I got.
The ladder was old, its wood weathered rough and gray. I worked to pull
myself up onto the third step (so near my goal of climbing onto the tree
itself!), when a long, brown splinter suddenly pierced one of my fingers.
All thought of climbing was over, as the pain demanded my full attention.
I began crying and worked my way back down the steps of the old ladder.
Mom reached me about the time I put one foot on the green grass. And she
took me inside, where she went to work removing the splinter and cleaning
the wound. She even put a BAND-AID on it.
But as she worked we talked. It didn't take her long to get me to admit
that I had been trying to use the ladder to climb the tree. (Now how did
she know that?) And so we talked about the painful splinter and about how
I could have been hurt even worse had I managed to get higher up, in the
tree itself. She helped me to see how getting a splinter in my finger
might actually be seen as a good thing.
"God was watching you," Mom said. "He's always watching us. All the time.
We can't see Him, but He sees us. And no matter where we are -- inside the
house, a car, or outside -- He sees what we're doing."
And she told me how God allowed me to get hurt by the splinter while I was
still low enough on the ladder not to really get hurt bad. She explained
how the pain from the splinter kept me from going on up into the tree,
where I might have fallen and broken my leg or arm. She helped me to see
that the tiny injury was used by God to protect me from something much
worse. And it all made sense to me at that very young age.
I wish I could say that I never disobeyed my parents again, that I never
broke the law as a young man, and that I never did anything in secret that
I shouldn't have done. But that's not the case. I can say that, as far as
I can remember, I never climbed that particular tree or messed with the
old ladder again.
But I never forgot what my mom told me that day. In fact, until I finally
trusted in Christ for myself at the age of 17, no other teaching or lesson
or sermon about God ever made as great an impression on me as my mother's
simple explanation of the splinter and God's protective eye. No preacher
of religious dogma came close to Mom's lesson.
And even now, as a Christian who has spent some years studying the Bible,
both formally and devotionally, I cannot say that she was wrong in any
part of what she said about God, and how He works in our lives.
Of course, we all do get hurt badly sometimes. Sometimes we suffer. And we
die. And we may not even be to blame, such as when an innocent child is
crippled for life -- or killed -- by the carelessness of a drunken driver.
But in every human life God's care and purposes can be seen, when all the
details are pulled together and examined. Most of those details go unknown
in this life. But God has a plan and a purpose for everything that happens
in every human life. He knows His business, and He works in our lives to
accomplish much more than the few little things we may see on this side of
eternity.
God has a rich and perfect plan for every single human life. And that
would be scary to me if God were not as good and as caring as He is. God
is righteous in that He always balances everything out. But He is also
very wise, very good-hearted toward all people -- and especially toward
those who trust in Him.
I believe that because He gave me the perfect mom. And she was right there
at the right time -- the perfect time -- to teach me something I would
need for the rest of my life. And now I am passing it along to you. I hope
it will help you and play some tiny part in encouraging you whenever you
may need it the most.
God is watching. And He will always be there when you really -- really --
need Him the most. You may think that you're all alone in this world.
Everyone may have turned away from you. But the God who made the heavens
and the earth is not far away at all. He sees you, and knows just what you
need. And He will work things out for your good. Just trust Him.
The Bible says:
"The LORD is gracious and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in
steadfast love. The LORD is good to all, and his compassion is over all
that he has made... The LORD upholds all who are falling, and raises up
all who are bowed down... The LORD is just in all his ways, and kind in
all his doings. The LORD is near to all who call on him, to all who call
on him in truth." (Psalm 145:8 & 9, 14, 17, & 18, NRSV)
Mom told me about God's watchful and caring eye way back in 1955 or so. In
fact, that was about the time she was diagnosed with polio. For a long
time she hovered near death, forced to remain in an iron lung. The doctors
told her plainly that she would never walk again. But in time, she did
manage to walk again. First in braces, and eventually on her own. (Once,
when she received notice that she had won $100 in a supermarket drawing,
she even jumped right over a fence.) But she never recovered the use of
her right hand again. Several experimental surgeries left it much the
same, with no muscles able to open or close the slender fingers.
Mom was never a religious woman and would not fully surrender to Jesus
Christ until shortly after I became a Christian (when I was 17) in 1970.
Not long after that, my dad also walked down the aisle of a local church
to ask Jesus to take over. And a year or so later, my step-dad (as
hard-hearted a man as ever did live) also gave his life to Jesus Christ.
Not everything works out the way we think it will. Not everything happens
when we wish it would, or in the way we might think it should. But I
firmly believe that, with God's gracious help, all things do work out. As
I've already said, I'm able to have a strong hope today because God used a
very special person to teach me something very special about His ways.
Jim
"Train up a child in the way he should go, and
when he is old he will not depart from it."
— Proverbs 22:6
©2005 Jim Sutton
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