Story by Ariene Creswell - Dear Sunday School Teacher

            You probably don’t remember me. I was one of many little girls who graced your Sunday school class. I came to you dressed up in dotted Swiss and patent leather, looking like somebody’s darling, but sincerely wishing I were somewhere else. I squirmed and fidgeted during your story of Noah, and said I didn’t care why God sent the flood, I wanted my daddy.

            In junior high, I was the one who passed notes to Tommy; the one who tricked Paula into reading the seventh chapter of Solomon’s Song for a Sunday school devotional; the one who insisted you explain (in front of the whole class) who Jesus would decide to save if two people were drowning.

            I was the one in the college class (just before I “dropped out” entirely) who asked you, as you spoke of God’s unconditional love, if it really mattered anyway, since rumor had it God was dead.

            But one dreadful night, dear teacher, my world crashed in around me/ Fear and bitterness, and depression threatened to push me across that fine line that separates the rational from the otherwise. In my utter desperation I cried out to the God you assured me existed.

            I begged him to rescue me from myself, to save me, to show me the way to Him. Jesus responded to me, dear teacher, through a verse you patiently prodded me to memorize one Sunday as I squirmed and fidgeted in my dotted Swiss:

            “I am the way, the truth, and the life. No man comes unto the father, except by me.”

            He comforted me during that long, lonely night as I repeated those precious verses you taught me year after year. The truth and strength of those passages provided a lifeline at the end of my rope, a footbridge across that terrifying chasm between darkness and light.

            You probably don’t remember me, dear Sunday school teacher. But I remember you; How eternally grateful I will be for your patience, your persistence, and your love. How sorry I am that I have lost track of you and can’t come to you and hug you, and share with you my glorious (though belated discovery) that He lives! Just like you said all along.