Last week I had the opportunity to substitute teach a classroom full of 1^st graders at a local Christian school. My wife said I was crazy for taking this on—a “glutton for punishment.” She’s not wrong. Signing up to teach and corral 19 six and seven-year-olds on their first full week of school is fraught with danger. It’s eight hours of non-stop instructing, correcting, and keeping your head on a swivel. At the end of each day, I wanted to lie in a fetal position on the floor of my bedroom closet and not talk to anyone or answer any questions. By Friday afternoon, my appreciation for full-time teachers was at an all-time high. They are underpaid and underappreciated.

Still, it was an amazing week. In Matthew 18:3, Jesus said, “Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” High stakes—He’s got my attention. But what does He mean by that? His charge, on the surface, sounds counter-intuitive. Shouldn’t 1^st graders strive to become more like you and me? Perhaps in some ways. But this week reminded me of how much I can learn from a 1^stgrader…

1^st Graders are dependent on others and know it. These young people are at the mercy of their parents, teachers, and others to provide for them and sustain them. For 450 minutes each day last week, they humbly came to me for help tying shoes, opening milk cartons, microwaving chicken nuggets, making capital letters, and a hundred other tasks. They trusted me to do the right thing and help them solve each challenge. Similarly, God wants us to totally rely on Him. Too often, I strive for self-sufficiency. I pat myself on the back for some achievement, forgetting that every talent and ability I have comes from God. Apart from Jesus—the vine—I am nothing. (John 15:5) I need to empty myself, trust God, and humbly ask Him to fill me and sustain me. Without Him, I’m left with untied shoes and unopened milk cartons.

1^st Graders are vulnerable and transparent. On Monday morning, the second day of school, I asked the students to complete a “First Day Feelings with Chester” chart. One by one, they indicated whether, on day one, they were mostly “Excited,” “Happy,” “Sad,” or “Scared.” Eleven of the 19 students, over half the class, admitted to being either “Sad” or “Scared.” Several commented that they missed their parents or were nervous about what to expect on the first day of a new school year. I appreciated their honesty and vulnerability. Too often, when someone asks how we’re doing, we say, “Fine,” even when things are not fine. We put on our happy faces, especially in church settings, and rarely ask for prayers or help. Here’s the problem: I can’t bear your burden (Galatians 6:2) if I don’t know what burdens you, and you can’t do the same for me. Whenever things are not “fine,” a 1^st grader will let you know. Let’s learn from them and get the prayers and support we need.

1^st Graders are loving. Oh, sure, there were moments of unkindness—not sharing or not including someone in a game at recess. But there were far more moments of kindness. As they lined up in the hallway waiting for their turn at the restroom on Tuesday, one young lady informed me that her friend was sad. Sure enough, there was another young lady in line with her head down, crying. I hadn’t noticed her but her friend had. She trusted me to investigate and do something to remedy the situation, which I did. Do we notice hurting friends? Do we do something to help them or involve someone who can? Do we pray for them? Becoming like a child involves having the sweet, caring heart of a child. 

1^st Graders are curious and eager to learn. I love the joy on a child’s face when they work hard and finally figure something out. These young people watched and listened intently as I illustrated on the smartboard how prayer is us talking to God and reading the Bible is God talking to us. Later, one girl proudly and correctly used the word “cooperation” in a sentence—a word we had learned that morning. As I asked them questions after each page of a picture book I read to them, every hand went up. Without prompting, most of them thought to grab their little Bibles before going to chapel. Throughout the week, they listened, learned, and wanted me to know that they had learned. Do we have that same attitude toward Bible study? Do we hunger and thirst for righteousness? (Matthew 5:6) Or, in the realm of religion, are we content that we already know all that we need to know? I need a 1^st grader’s eagerness to never stop learning, especially about God.

1^st Graders are quick to rejoice and quick to forgive. We had a lot of fun last week. I’m finding I often relate more to children than adults—I don’t know what that says about me! I taught these children a class chant. Whenever I said, “Booga, booga, booga!” they said, “Ah, ah, ahhhh!” (I learned that at Air Force basic training.) I let them rename me for a day, and they chose “Mr. Chicken Head”—which caused more than a little confusion when one parent asked her child who taught them that day. At recess, I sat in the grass with a dozen girls and told them fanciful stories that I made up on the fly. They giggled when I informed them that Elf on the Shelf, during the off-season, lives in the pipes under the bathroom. I told them about Santa getting stuck in the chimney on Christmas Eve at “Molly’s” house, but Molly couldn’t hear him because she was snoring. Molly raised her hand and informed me that it couldn’t have been her because she had surgery to remove her adenoids. I stand corrected. We took a hike around the campus, turned over rocks, and chased butterflies. With each discovery and each story, the children laughed. They were full of joy. And when a classmate said or did something unkind to them, they were quick to forgive and move on as if nothing had happened. Do we rejoice in the Lord always? (Philippians 4:4) Do we still marvel at the amazing things in God’s creation? (Psalm 19:1) Do we forgive one another, as the Lord has forgiven us? (Colossians 3:13) I’ve got some work to do. 

“Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.”

I get it now.

My friend Tee Bolen is no stranger to poverty. His mom passed away when he was two, at which point his dad moved away to Columbia, SC, and his three siblings and a half-sister were farmed out to various families. Three ended up in orphanages. His grandmother insisted young Tee live with her, and for the next 17 years, they moved at least 17 times. 

“We had no income. We would be evicted from one place and move to another, sometimes back into an earlier place. We were destitute. Everything was a struggle. I remember waking up in the morning and seeing exposed ground through the gaps in the floorboards. We didn’t have anything—only each other. We survived by picking cotton in the cotton fields. I couldn’t provide for us until I turned 12 and got a job in a shoe repair shop. Steve, I know what being dirt poor is like. I’ve been there.”

Now grown and in the final quarter of his life, Tee’s been blessed with a Christian family, Christian friends, and a comfortable standard of living. Driven by his childhood memories, a love for God, and compassion for his fellow man, he is determined to “pay it forward.” He wants to lessen the burden of others in need. For the second consecutive year, Tee and his wife Mary paid for a home to be built for a poverty-stricken person or family in Honduras. When I start to shower praise on Tee for his generosity, he cuts me off.

“Listen, this isn’t about me. This isn’t even my money. This is God’s money. He’s entrusted it to me for a short while, and I think He’s curious what I’m going to do with it. Well, let me tell you what I’m not going to do—keep it all to myself and build bigger barns. Not when there are people around me in need.” 

A desire to “pay it forward” isn’t Tee’s only motivation for donating a home. His friend, Jewel Clifton, is nearing the end of a long battle with cancer.

Two months ago, Tee told me, “Jewel is a dear Sister in Christ. She’s frail and will be getting her heavenly reward soon. I want this house to be built in her honor. As she prepares to move into the room Jesus has prepared for her, someone she’ll never meet will move into an earthly home in Honduras. I doubt Jewel will live long enough to see the home built this summer in her honor, but she’ll know it is coming. I hope that brings her comfort.”

When I informed Dalton Hines, our full-time missionary on the ground in Honduras, of Tee’s donation and Jewel’s situation, his response was immediate. Rather than wait for the summer rotation of mission teams to build the house, Dalton and his local construction crew would complete the project within two weeks. Even better, they would use the project to create a house-building instructional video for future TORCH mission teams to use.

Dalton wasn’t done yet—his brain never rests. He’s as attuned to the needs of others as anyone I’ve ever met. He’s also extremely capable and resourceful—Central America’s MacGyver. On any given day, you’ll find him vetting future homeowners, stocking a tilapia farm, installing a water filtration system for a poor community, or mentoring his young students to build like carpenters and live like Christ.

Dalton suggested his team build the Tee Bolen-donated home for Israel, a 29-year-old Honduran. Although TORCH Missions typically builds homes for families, not older single guys, Israel’s situation is unique. His parents abandoned him as a boy and he is, for the most part, uneducated and borderline special needs. For many years, he bounced around, seemingly unloved. He was homeless—a classic poor beggar, struggling to survive.  

When Israel was 8 years old, he became friends with Christian, whose family agreed to take him in. That was his first big break. Later, as an adult, Israel was allowed to stay in a room on the family compound. Still struggling on many levels, he paid a modest amount for rent but was unable to fully provide for himself or get ahead. Christian’s family continued attending to Israel’s physical and emotional needs with love and acceptance. They are, to him, the eyes, hands, and feet of Jesus. They are the only real family he’s ever had. Their son Christian eventually went to work for Dalton, which would turn out to be Israel’s second big break.

While Dalton and his expert construction crew can build a home for someone in about four hours (three if they’ve had coffee), they took their time on Israel’s new house. The construction lasted several days, with Dalton narrating each phase of construction to the camera for the benefit of future TORCH teams. Over the course of several nights, Israel slept on the building materials to prevent theft. Having been homeless for so many years, he was comfortable being alone, staring into the night sky. I can only imagine what went through his head as the prospect of becoming a homeowner began to take shape.

That brings me back to Tee Bolen, who has never met Israel, Dalton, or Christian and his family. He probably never will, this side of Heaven. He may never make it to Honduras to see Israel’s now-completed home in person. Pictures will have to suffice. But Tee trusts God. He knows that God can do more with his money than he could ever think or imagine. And that makes Tee more than just a friend to me—he’s a role model and a hero.

Friends, we serve an awesome God!

God heard the cries of a homeless, hungry 8-year-old Honduran boy and led him to a loving family.

God touched the heart of an older American man, once poor himself, and led him to make a generous donation.

God gave an American missionary the wisdom and heart to join the various pieces of this puzzle together into a beautiful masterpiece. 

As a result, tonight Israel will fall asleep in his very own home. As he looks down on the wooden floor, there will be no gaps or exposed ground. I picture him smiling.

And sometime soon, Tee’s friend Jewel will get a new body and a new, permanent home—with Jesus by her side. I suspect she’ll be smiling too.

“Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.”    – Matthew 18:3

I had a play date with my friend, Ham, recently. Every few months, we hang out to watch dinosaur videos on YouTube, launch ping pong balls at each other in the basement, and debate how long Godzilla would last against T-Rex. Our outings give his home-schooling mom a respite and sharpen me in my new grandfather role. I’m told Ham approaches his “Tio Steve” time with great anticipation.

His mom, Erika, dropped him off at Mr. Gatti’s Pizza, handed me his car seat, and wished me luck. Our itinerary included a pizza buffet, a one-hour journey to Gatlinburg (listening to dinosaur noises on YouTube along the way), and a couple of hours at a 30,000-square-foot arcade! At 1:00 p.m., though, my immediate need was food, and a plate with seven pieces of pizza atop a bed of salad awaited me.

I’ve prayed before most of the few dozen meals I’ve eaten at Mr. Gatti’s through the years. With a ravenous appetite and the scent of pizza engulfing my bowed head, my “Mr. Gatti’s prayers” are succinct—usually under seven seconds. But on this day, Ham offered to bless our food.

My buddy Ham’s prayers are neither succinct nor trite. This one lasted three minutes. He thanked God for the food which, frankly, met the minimum requirement for a Mr. Gatti’s prayer. He then asked God to “help all the people in this restaurant to come to know Jesus.” As I contemplated that utterance, he added, “And God, please be with that man sitting over there who is having trouble breathing. He’s on a machine.” As Ham continued, I opened my right eye. Sure enough, across from us near the salad bar, an elderly man ate pizza and breathed machine-supplied oxygen through his nose.

I hadn’t noticed the elderly man or any of Mr. Gatti’s patrons. They were just a generic conglomeration of humanity—a mass of strangers having lunch. So focused on the feast awaiting me, I didn’t contemplate their relationship with Jesus or the condition of their souls. I paid them no mind. 

Ham, a 7-year-old, not only noticed the diners collectively and individually but prayed for them. The note from the margin reads: Watch the children around you. You might just learn from them.

“Now when Job’s three friends heard of all this evil that had come upon him, they came each from his own place, Eliphaz the Temanite, Bildad the Shuhite, and Zophar the Naamathite. They made an appointment together to come to show him sympathy and comfort him. And when they saw him from a distance, they did not recognize him. And they raised their voices and wept, and they tore their robes and sprinkled dust on their heads toward heaven. And they sat with him on the ground seven days and seven nights, and no one spoke a word to him, for they saw that his suffering was very great.”  – Job 2:11-13                                                                             

Job’s friends should have stopped there. They rightly traveled to him to show sympathy and comfort in his time of need. For seven days and nights, they were content to be present with him in silence. What they didn’t realize was that their presence was enough. In subsequent chapters, we find them talking foolishly—misadvising, misunderstanding the meaning behind his suffering, and not being all that helpful. They should have kept quiet.

Mere presence is underrated. When it comes to the suffering of a friend, family member, or even a stranger, we want to do something about it. I like the way author Debbie Hall puts it: “Presence is a noun, not a verb; it is a state of being, not doing. States of being are not highly valued in a culture that places a high priority on doing. Yet, true presence or ‘being with’ another person carries with it a silent power—to bear witness to a passage, to help carry an emotional burden, or to begin a healing process. In it, there is an intimate connection with another that is perhaps too seldom felt in a society that strives for ever-faster ‘connectivity.’” 

The silent power of just being with someone—have you felt that? You don’t try to explain the meaning behind their tragedy. You don’t offer a 5-point plan for them to move beyond their grief. You don’t tell them how their miscarriage, divorce, or illness is just like something you experienced years ago. You just sit there. You listen. You let them grieve. Maybe you offer a hug or a shoulder to cry on. You’re present.

Allow me to apply the principle to funerals. Write this down: Always go to the funeral. Always. I say that as someone who dislikes funerals to my core. In my ideal world, the only funeral I would attend would be my own. I don’t like community mourning—I’d prefer to grieve alone in the corner of my closet. I don’t know what to say to the next-of-kin, especially when the deceased was not a person of faith. It’s awkward at best… and sad. The two hours of sobbing remembrances for someone I hardly knew are tedious. I don’t even like putting on a coat and tie. Still, whenever possible, I go to the funeral.

Why? Because it’s not about me! To become more like Jesus, I need to act more like Him and less like myself. I need to follow His Word rather than my instincts. Regardless of inconvenience, I need to carry the burdens of others (See Galatians 6:2).

As writer and poet Deirdre Sullivan puts it, “Do the right thing even when you don’t feel like it. Make the small gesture, even if you don’t have to and definitely don’t want to. I’m talking about things that represent only inconvenience to me, but the world to the other guy. You know, the painfully underattended birthday party, etc. In my humdrum life, the daily battle hasn’t been good versus evil. It’s hardly so epic. Most days, my real battle is doing good versus doing nothing.” 

I think she’s on to something. It’s unlikely I will wake up tomorrow with an insatiable desire to rob a bank, lie to my spouse, or murder someone. Oh, I’ll be tempted by things, for sure. And I’ll sin, but you probably won’t hear about it. It won’t make the news. Most of the time, my evil ways are discreet. But, like Sullivan, my greater battle—my bigger temptation—is apathy. I see a need and don’t meet it. I have an opportunity to serve or encourage or get involved and I don’t take it. Too often, I’m unwilling to even be… present.

When a friend is in crisis, should you go? Should you intrude on a loved one’s personal phase of grief? Unless specifically told otherwise (and maybe even then), go! Just go. Just be there. Go to the funeral. Go to the bedside. Go to the disaster zone. Whenever possible—wherever there are hurting, grieving people—be there. If torn on whether to go, go. Don’t hesitate to be with someone in need, even if there’s nothing you can “do” for them. Err on the side of being there. 

John 3:30 states, “He must increase, but I must decrease.”                      

For Jesus to increase, I must decrease. 

I must also be present.

So, I’ll say it again: Go to the funeral.