by Jennifer Greene-Sullivan
This morning, I sat in a Wilcox County office being fingerprinted.
The process was simple enough. Sign the forms. Verify the information. Place each finger on the scanner. Complete the paperwork. Yet as I moved through each step, I found myself thinking about the twenty-six-year-old woman who first walked into a classroom believing she had something to teach.
Back then, I wanted to be the best teacher I could possibly be. I wanted engaging lessons, strong test scores, and a classroom that reflected excellence. There is nothing wrong with those goals, but somewhere between lesson plans, raising children, heartbreak, healing, ministry, writing books, and learning to trust Jesus more deeply, my definition of success changed.
Today, I no longer want to be the best teacher there is; I simply want to be the most loving.
The older I become, the more convinced I am that people may forget what I taught them, but they rarely forget how they were treated. Long after a lesson is forgotten, kindness remains. Encouragement remains. Compassion remains. Love remains.
As I completed my paperwork, another realization settled into my heart. Although I was preparing to return to teaching, I never really stopped being a student.
In fact, some of the most important lessons I have learned over the last twenty-two years have not come from professors, conferences, books, or professional development. They have come from ordinary moments when God used unexpected teachers to reveal something about Himself.
As I sat completing paperwork, I found myself seated beneath a photograph of one of my late mentors, Myra. Her prayer box sat nearby, a quiet reminder of a life well lived and a faith well practiced. As I sat at that round table, Myra’s photograph and prayer box rested directly in front of me. Years after her passing, she was still teaching. Not through a lesson plan or a lecture, but through the quiet legacy of a life marked by prayer, faith, and love.
Perhaps that is another reason my definition of success has changed. I no longer want to be remembered for being the best teacher in the room. I want to be remembered for loving people well. I want to be known as one who continues to grow in knowledge both educational, artistically, and spiritually. The ultimate classroom is God’s– where He allows me to teach others as I too learn.
This week, one of those teachable moments happened to come from my nine-year-old son.
And the lesson he taught me had nothing to do with grammar, literature, or classroom management.
It had everything to do with faith.
Monday afternoon, Chris, Liam, and I visited our favorite local Mexican restaurant, La Cabana. Liam’s summer lunch order rarely changes. He loves the G Special Chicken, and our lunch outings have become one of my favorite parts of summer break.
After lunch, Liam and I settled into a pair of rocking chairs on the front porch while Chris visited with several farmer friends. The afternoon breeze drifted through the shade, and I sat quietly waiting to see where our conversation might lead.
I didn’t have to wait long.
“Mama, I have an issue I need to talk about,” Liam said.
Then, without missing a beat, he added, “But what I should do is take it directly to God.”
Before I could offer advice, ask questions, or formulate a response, Liam bowed his head.
“Father, I need help. I miss my Papaw and need to see him. Please help me with this situation now. Amen.”
Chris’ biological father works in Chattanooga during the week. For several months, we had not seen or spoken with him very often. Liam missed him terribly.
“I come into agreement,” I replied.
Then we returned to our tiny house office on Frank Cook Road and continued our day.
Forty-five minutes later, I heard a squeal.
Liam raced past my office window and sprinted toward the driveway. Curious, I looked outside to see what had generated such excitement.
There, pulling into the driveway as pretty as you please, was Papaw.
As I watched Liam wrap his arms around his grandfather, I found myself smiling. Yet I also found myself convicted.
Had I been in Liam’s position, my response would have been different.
I would have analyzed the situation. I would have considered the obstacles. I might have called someone, sent a text message, or developed a plan. I certainly would have spent more time thinking than praying.
Liam simply talked to God.
James 5:16 says, “The prayer of a righteous person has great power as it is working.” The older I become, the more I appreciate that our confidence before God is not rooted in our own goodness. Jesus makes us righteous. Because of Him, we can boldly approach the Father, trusting that He hears us when we pray.
What struck me most was not that Liam prayed.
It was that he didn’t wait.
He didn’t wait until bedtime. He didn’t wait until church. He didn’t wait until he understood how God might answer. He simply took his concern directly to the Father and trusted Him with the outcome.
The following day, Liam reminded me of that truth again.
As we drove home from the shop, he announced from the backseat that he needed to preach. What followed sounded less like a child and more like a narrator carrying his audience through Scripture. Beginning with Noah and moving through generations of biblical history, he traveled effortlessly through God’s story until he arrived at the death and resurrection of Jesus.
Then he paused.
Silence filled the truck.
Finally, he said, “Do you know why Jesus’ first miracle was at the wedding at Cana? Because what He has done for us is prepare a table—no, a feast at the groom’s table. We are the new wine as members of the Body of Christ, and as the Bride of Christ, I am going to sit at the wedding feast beside the Father, Jesus, my Jimmy Mac, and Mamaw. Will you have a place at the table?”
Tears immediately filled my eyes.
My daddy, Jimmy Mac, died two weeks before Liam was born. Judy, the grandmother Liam affectionately called Mamaw, passed away several years ago. She loved generously, smelled wonderful, and welcomed everyone with her sweet Tennessee accent and Southern hospitality.
As I listened, I realized that Liam’s faith is not rooted in wishful thinking. It is rooted in Jesus. He believes heaven is real. He believes God’s promises are true. He believes there is a place prepared for those who belong to Christ.
Most importantly, he believes God’s Word.
Jesus told His disciples, “Unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven” (Matthew 18:3, ESV).
For years, I interpreted that verse as a call to humility. It certainly includes humility, but perhaps it also includes trust. Children believe their Father. Children run to their Father. Children expect their Father to hear them.
The older we become, the more difficult that can be.
Life introduces disappointment. Prayers are not always answered according to our timeline. Loss leaves scars. Heartbreak creates caution. Slowly, we begin trusting our experiences more than God’s promises.
Yet this week, a little boy reminded me of something I desperately needed to remember.
Faith is not confidence in ourselves.
Faith is confidence in God.
A few hours before all of this, I sat in an office completing paperwork to return to the classroom. As I signed forms and submitted fingerprints, I found myself thinking about teaching. Yet the truth is that I never really left the classroom.
The older I become, the more I realize that God hides some of His greatest lessons in unexpected places. Sometimes those lessons arrive in a Bible study. Sometimes they arrive in a prayer closet. Sometimes they arrive while sitting on the porch of a Mexican restaurant.
And sometimes they arrive from the backseat of a truck.
At twenty-six, I thought I was becoming a teacher.
At forty-eight, I am discovering that I am still a student.
Perhaps that is one of the hidden gifts of parenthood. We spend years believing we are teaching our children, only to discover that God is using them to teach us. This week, a little boy’s faith reminded me to pray first, trust more deeply, and believe God’s promises with the confidence of a child.
And because of that, I am still learning to fly.
Scriptural Focus
James 5:16 (ESV)
“Therefore, confess your sins to one another and pray for one another, that you may be healed. The prayer of a righteous person has great power as it is working.”
Matthew 18:3 (ESV)
“Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.”
Hebrews 4:16 (ESV)
“Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need.”
Reflection
This week, I expected to be thinking about lesson plans, classroom procedures, and the logistics of returning to education. Instead, God reminded me that before I can teach anyone else, I must remain teachable myself.
Liam’s faith challenged me because it was uncomplicated. He did not analyze his problem, seek multiple opinions, or create a backup plan. He simply took his concern directly to God. Somewhere between childhood and adulthood, many of us learn to trust our reasoning more than our relationship with the Father.
The older I become, the more I realize that spiritual maturity is not the absence of dependence. True maturity recognizes its need for God. Childlike faith is not immature faith. Childlike faith is confident trust in the character of a loving Father.
Perhaps that is why Jesus pointed His disciples toward children. They remind us what trust looks like. They remind us what dependence looks like. And sometimes, they remind us what faith looks like.
Challenge
Think about a concern you are carrying right now.
Have you spent more time analyzing it than praying about it? Have you discussed it with friends, replayed it in your mind, or worried about possible outcomes before taking it to God?
This week, follow Liam’s example. Take your concern directly to the Father first. Pray before you plan. Trust before you understand. Then watch what God does.
Prayer
Father,
Thank You for the children You place in our lives and for the ways You use them to teach us. Thank You for reminding us that faith is not confidence in ourselves but confidence in You. Forgive me for the times I have overcomplicated what You intended to be simple. Help me to bring my concerns to You first instead of carrying them on my own. Teach me to trust Your character when I cannot see Your plan. Give me the humility to remain teachable, the courage to pray boldly, and the faith to believe Your promises with the confidence of a child. As I enter new seasons and face new opportunities, help me remember that I am always Your student. In Jesus’ name, Amen.
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