As the kids tumbled into the car, I summoned the courage once again to broach the touchy subject of school for next year. Elizabeth plopped her backpack onto the floor and buckled up.
“Honey, I don’t like this any more than you, but Dad and I can’t pay your way to Briarwood next year. God loves you and will be with you at public school, you’ll see.”
“Don’t worry mom. Jimmy and I have it all taken care of.” With that she yanked off her white canvas shoes and started removing nickels, dimes and quarters (and an occasional rock) from inside her sock.
“What on earth?”
“Well Jimmy wants me to come back here and I want me to come back. So he’s bringing me his change when he gets some. Plus I’ll pray.” (I’ve learned not to dismiss this scary last sentence!)
“Young lady! It’s very expensive to come here. We’d send you if we possibly could. Don’t take any more change from Jimmy or from anyone! Anyway, it could never be enough – you’re too young to understand.”
With that she unzipped her plaid backpack and dug out her bible. She rustled and rattled the pages, cleared her throat and read. She read quite a number of verses before I realized I was hearing the story of Jesus blessing and multiplying the loaves and fishes so that there was enough to meet the needs of those present.
She closed her bible, satisfied that I, too, now understood that Jimmy would bring his change, she would pray, God would multiply and I would see. She was certain that she’d be with Jimmy next year at Briarwood.
What could I say? She’d offered no commentary with her text for me to refute. No point of theology to debate. What do you say to a third-grader who reasons with you from scripture?
The next day she came skipping out to the car. She took off her white canvas shoe and, face beaming, held up a five-dollar bill. “Look – it’s working!”
“Young lady! You do NOT take money from boys – what did I say yesterday?”
“You said NO CHANGE. This is a bill!”
With that I marched her inside to return the cash to Jimmy. He looked embarrassed. I knew he loved my daughter with the important kind of love third graders delight in. The kind that catches bugs together, the kind that acts like they don’t notice when you burp. The kind of love that writes out a note and then wads it up instead of giving it to you. The kind that hides money in socks and prays and expects God to do the rest.
“That was so sweet, Jimmy, but this belongs to you.”
It was a forlorn Elizabeth that sat silently next to me. I tried again to explain.
“Elizabeth, Dad’s business isn’t doing well. Sometimes God’s ways are not ways we can’t understand. Only He knows what He is doing. But we can trust Him. He knows why you need to go to public school next year.”
“But they don’t pray. They don’t read the bible…”
“Elizabeth, we’ll do those things at home and at church! You can’t go here next year.”
She knew I was in no mood to be reasoned with. So she went above my head once more. Digging around in her plaid backpack, she brought forth her weapon. Rustling pages made me cringe – what next – the story of the heathens throwing babies in fire to sacrifice them to foreign gods?
“I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” Again, no commentary.
Well, I had indeed brought up my child in the way she should go. But I had to admit, I felt like I was in the trenches at bootcamp that day.
I still wait to see what God will do about Elizabeth’s tuition. Meanwhile, in this matter of faith, I remain the student to a childlike belief. And I stand amazed at God’s faithfulness to me through the soul of my child.