There was a little boy who came to church in California. His name was Josh, and he showed up on his own. No parents, just him. Perhaps it was the playground in the yard that first attracted him, and I flatter myself that the Sunday School projects enticed him to return. I invested a lot of energy in making them fun. Like when we built the Holy City in Revelation. Melted hard candy made beautiful  golden streets and twelve jeweled gates. Or the little books we crafted of the plagues. Rice was ideal for lice, and we snipped up animal print fabric for cattle. There was always singing, because that is what I love.

 

Anyway Josh came back for months, and he brought his friends. I can only imagine what he said to lure them to a new place on Sunday morning. Turns out he was the best evangelist we ever had. When the clocks changed I wondered if he would be on time. He was after all only eight. But he was there. That summer we had a rummage sale to raise money and he bought a tie. 

 

"Maybe the people at church will like me better if I wear it."

 

His words stung. I had come to care about him, but I had never introduced him to the grown ups that chatted over coffee after the service. It hadn't occurred to me. Now I regret it. I remember a conversation when the kids were playing on the swing set. 

 

"I am the only one in my family who believes in God."

 

These twenty years later I wonder if he has a warm feeling about the place he came for cookies and stories. I have a warm feeling about him.