The Gift

It was a beautiful spring morning in the Ozarks. Trees were beginning to bud. Dogwood could be seen blooming. Birds sung in the early morning sun providing flashes of color. Glimpses of Redbuds in bloom all combined on the rolling terrain to create a beautiful day.

It happened to be Sunday. They were visiting one of the congregations of the Ozark hills--a building made from the stones gathered from the land. Rough, common rock housed a place of worship. Families gathered from the nearby hills and hollers, coming together for Sunday morning worship. Coming to the steps leading into the building a young boy of about 10 called out--"here, I'll get the door for you."

Watching the family climb the steps--the mother slowly one step at a time and with the strong arm of her husband to support her--the boy innocently, honestly asked, "What's wrong with your leg, lady?" She explained that she had sustained an injury and could not feel the leg and that it was weak, but that with the use of a strong cane and assistance from her husband and son that she managed "just fine."

With that answer the boy ushered them in to the building. It was simple and plain--hardwood floors--probably hewn from the trees of the surrounding woods; cane bottom chairs; and lots of sunshine pouring in. The sounds of voices wrapped themselves around them like a warm shawl on that chilly spring morning.

The boy soon came to them again. He wanted to make certain that they were comfortable. Listening to him greet everyone in the building they noticed a bandage of some sort under his t-shirt. The pastor greeted them, then turning to the boy asked if his heart monitor was in place; if his heart was beating too fast or too slow. The boy assured him he was fine and turned to introduce his new friends. In a few moments he skipped off to speak to yet another person coming to church before finding a seat up front.

The service opened simply and was a perfect reflection of the creator and creation in which they lived. They were a warm, open congregation who happened to have a lot of visitors this particular week. Introductions were made, songs sung, and the concerns of the community shared. As people shared, the young boy raised his hand. The pastor called on him to share. He stood and turned to face the congregation; pointed to the lady he had helped into the building and simply stated "I think we should pray for God to heal her." His pastor responded "and we will, Bubba . . . and we will."

The simple, heart-felt words of a child brought her to tears. No one had offered to pray for her healing in over ten years. Oh, there were expressions of sympathy for her problem; concern for her health; an kind word here and there, but nothing compared to the love of a simple Ozark boy who had much greater problems of his own.

Her own husband and child reached for her as the tears slid down her face. This was the best birthday present she had ever been given--the prayer of a child: innocent, pure, and fathomless. She thanked God for such a magnanimous gift. For the rest of the service, she could feel the presence of her creator--God, her parents--especially her father who had been raised not far from this location; and the shell that had enclosed her broke away through worship with these simple, loving people. This was the perfect gift.

God, we so often find ourselves caught up in the striving to get ahead rather than finding rest in you. We depend upon others opinions, wisdom, studies, and values to the point of losing our way. You might even say that at times we lose sight of the forest because of the trees. Help us God to look at what is truly important rather than our own wisdom. Thank you for the gift of love, simplicity, and the prayer of a child. May we all be as wise as one who walks depending upon you. So be it. Amen.