I sat near the back of the small church taking in the faces of the people around me. The Church in Botswana is mainly women and children; most of the men take jobs in larger cities or spend their Sunday mornings at the plow. I remember looking at the rows of children in the front and trying to count how many had actually come with any adults. I’d say at least half had shown up of their own accord.
Our host told us of this phenomenon. He explained there would be children there whose parents told them church was a waste of time, not to bother. But 5 or so young ones were there at the church on Sunday, trying to follow the words of the songs and trying not to fidget too much.
Even now the image brings a smile to my face. Those kids, those small village kids who only know sand huts and donkeys, are living my story.
I, too, went to church every Sunday without my parents. Though I didn’t walk there barefoot or have to sit through a sermon tailored to adults, I still made up my young mind to keep going in spite of what my family thought. I have no doubt children can know and understand the gospel message because I received Christ as my Savior as a child. I was adopted into a church family who taught me what it is to be part of the Body of Christ, to encourage one another. If anyone had decided back then I was too young to recognize I am a sinner in need of Jesus, I’m not sure I’d be where I am today.
Praise God I am no longer the only member of the Sherburn household who is walking with the Lord. But I also praise God for the times in my life where I did feel alone, where I did have to “beat the odds”. Because now I can look into the face of the kids in this tiny village church and know God’s Kingdom belongs to such as these.
