I sat at the long wooden table the youth Sunday
School class gathered around. Aside from me, our Sunday School class
consisted of my brother, one of our cousins, and another girl who was a distant
cousin. On occasion, another pair of brothers showed up, but the class was mainly
comprised of myself and those three relations.
As I look back, I sympathize with the
different adults who took on the role of teaching that class. I’m sure we
appeared bored and disinterested as the teacher
painstakingly asked for a volunteer to read the verses or waited in the awkward
silence for someone to answer a question. Most of us were quiet, my brother
was usually not happy to be the only boy in the class, and I grew frustrated
with how Sunday School books asked questions with answers so blatantly obvious
to the text we just read, it wasn’t worth the effort of speaking up to answer what
was already printed right in front of us.
One Sunday School class specifically
stands out in my mind. The subject centered around the vague topic of prayer
and, perhaps feeling desperate to fill the silence with something—anything---the
teacher gave an example to hopefully contribute to the lesson.
