Even the littlest angels grow up
Mom and I walked quickly across the parking lot at St. Mary’s Church in Glens Falls, New York, where we lived. I checked the announcement from the bulletin I held in my hand again. It announced the time and place of a new Bible study tonight. “I think I know right where the room is,” I said.
It was strange how the announcement had caught not only my eye but Mom’s too. I grew up at St. Mary’s, and there must have been dozens of Bible studies at our church over the years. We never went. But for whatever reason, we both wanted to go to this one.
We walked into the building and looked around. There was nobody but us in the entryway. I didn’t hear anyone. “I think it’s this way,” I said, leading Mom down the hall. I was used to taking charge. I was a school principal, with a long teaching career. I taught my students to keep working until they solved a problem. And I would keep searching until I found this Bible study! Mom and I turned the corner and found…an empty room.
“Maybe it’s upstairs,” said Mom.
This time she led the way. I glanced at my watch. We still had several minutes before the class started, but I didn’t like feeling lost. It reminded me of my early days as a second-grade teacher here, back when I was just learning the ropes. I didn’t have much experience but I was eager to try new things. That first year I planned a big Christmas play. A class mother got us free elf hats from the Glens Falls National Bank, and I wrote a script about elves with a part for everyone.
The following year I decided to do a Nativity play. I based it on the classic picture book, The Littlest Angel, the story of a rambunctious boy-angel who finds it difficult to fit in with the ordered world of heaven.
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