Fentress United Methodist Church

Once upon a time, a long time ago, when I was a lot younger but still old enough to know better, someone decided I should teach a children’s Sunday school class.

I don’t remember who came up with the idea, but I’m sure they knew I was a career co-dependent, constitutionally unable to say, No. Even when No would have been the sensible answer. Even when I knew, somewhere in the mists of my subconscious, that Yes would lead to disaster.

So I said, Yes, and spent Sunday mornings for the next several months perched on a small green-painted wooden chair, one of the very same chairs I’d occupied when I was four years old, in the very same classroom of the Fentress United Methodist Church.

Around me sat four or five children ranging in age from, say, four to ten. Nice children, polite, good listeners. But one stands out in my memory: Brandon.

His family lived one small-town block from me. They owned an enormous horse—white, gray, perhaps dappled, I don’t remember exactly—but I do remember driving by their house and seeing in the yard tiny Brandon in the saddle atop that great big horse. I don’t think the child was afraid of anything.

Brandon had straight blonde hair and, when I was around him, a perpetual smile. There was also a perpetual twinkle in his eye. He was beyond cute.

Anyway, regarding Sunday school—you can probably see where this is heading:

On the day in question, we were going great guns, singing and praying and playing a Sunday school game. Then, aided by my David C. Cook teacher’s guide, I told the Bible story. The children hung on my every word.

Thus armed with a false sense of security, I read, “Jesus said, ‘These people need a shepherd.'” Then, because I believe all terms should be clearly defined, I paused and said, “Now, do we all know what a shepherd is?”