VBS WEEK!!!!!!! Is there anything more fun than VBS WEEK??????

          Well, from my perspective, yes, actually, there are things more fun.

          Consider what is involved. I love to teach, but teaching theological truth to a four year old is a challenge that does me in every time. The attention span is almost zero seconds. As the children get older their attention span increases by one minute for each year of age. So hard! Then there are snacks. For me, when it is summer and it is time to eat, I want my burger grilled with a bit of a crust, some condiments and some potato salad. What do we get? A cookie or popcorn or maybe a hotdog that represents something, and a bottle of water. The kids around you are eating like mad and thoroughly enjoying the experience and there I am wondering if Kaitland will know if I snatch her cookie. You have to have activities, of course. I guess I am OK with that, so long as we aren’t keeping score. If we are keeping score, say playing kickball, then back off! I play to win! If I have to run over Jaden at first base, then Jaden is going down!

          Vacation Bible School is not my favorite thing. In fact, Sunday afternoon Marsha and I were at lunch and I looked around and thought, ‘This time next week it will all be over.’ Not a good attitude.

          The thing is, though, I also feel it is one of the most important things the church does all year. Sharing the Gospel with children is the best thing we can do. I just………struggle. I’ve been involved in so many! Oh, well. This year, at least, I am only supposed to be involved on the periphery. I hope.

          However, every single VBS has left me with memories.

          Marsha and I have done this so long we remember when VBS was two weeks long. I know many of you do, too, but are you still doing VBS? There is no age limit. COME ON! IT’S FUN! Anyway, back in 1975 I was home from college for the summer. Working in a factory on afternoons. The home church was quite large. VBS was in the morning, 9 to noon. I was assigned a class of about 15 sixth grade boys. Nothing to it, I thought. This will be fun. It was fun. For them. It was two weeks of torture for me. VBS in the morning, factory in the afternoon and then toss and turn all night. Marsha and I were engaged at the time. She was the music for the two weeks, playing the acoustic guitar for all the music for opening and closing and from class to class. We were on a date on Saturday evening and I was wired pretty tight. She showed me her fingers, which were actually bruised from playing so much. I had no sympathy for her. I didn’t even act like I had sympathy. She married me anyway, for some reason. But I had a kid named Philip. Little goof drove me nuts for two weeks. If I could have got my hands on him…well, he made it through the two weeks, and so did I. Flash forward to 1985. We were getting ready to go to seminary and had traveled north to see the family before we dove into that. Marsha and I had walked into a convenience store for something. At the back of the store a tall, good looking young man was busy mopping the floor. He looked up with a smile and then stopped, a different kind of look on his face.

“Mr. Larry? Miss Marsha? It’s me, Phil.” It didn’t click to me, and Philip could tell. “Remember me? VBS, way back. You were the one who told me how to be saved! I’m going into my senior year at Cedarville (a Christian college in western Ohio) in a few weeks. Wow, I didn’t think I’d ever see you guys again. I have always wanted to say ‘thanks.’ That made me feel pretty small right then and it made Marsha giggle.

Many years later, I was a pastor but still doing VBS. The week was over and it had been a stressful week. Over 80 kids each day, and I had all of them since I was teaching the Bible story. Marsha had taught the crafts, so she feeling it, too. It was Saturday night. We just wanted to relax and there was a movie out we wanted to see, so Marsha and I went to the movie. We were in the lobby waiting in line for popcorn when a little girl’s voice shouted, “HEY” Naturally, you turn to a noise like that, just to see what is going on. Just as I turned a little girl was at the end of her run and was leaping towards me. I caught her out of instinct and she wrapped her arms around my neck and her legs around my chest. She almost knocked me over. A woman was running after her, a confused but angry look on her face.

“Mommy, it’s him, it’s him! I told you about him! He’s my friend! He told me about Jesus!” Mommy relaxed a little and smiled. I was trying to peel the little one off, but not having much luck. Mommy told her to let go, they had to go. She finally did. When she did, I got a good look at her. I guess I had her all week, but I didn’t recognize her. There had been so many kids. Of course, Marsha knew her and talked to her, calling her by name. Smarty pants.

Then there was Miami, Florida. One of the suburbs of Miami was the town of Hialeah. A very large Hispanic population in Hialeah, famous for the Hialeah Racetrack. I was an assistant at one of the few English speaking churches in town. We had a Spanish mission, which ran about 400 people on Sunday morning, quite a bit larger than the English speaking church. Because the high schoolers were second generation Hispanics, they knew English. My whole youth group was Hispanic. We got along great.

For that first VBS we were there, the VBS director of the Spanish church asked me if I would teach the Spanish teens. I told him I would, assuming that most of them would be my youth group. And they were, but there were quite a few I had never met, too. Many Hispanic males are filled with machismo. It really shows in teenage boys. Some of them swaggered in, took one look at me (flaming red hair and freckles) and deduced I was not Spanish. One whispered something to another, using the word ‘gringo’ and saying it with a sneer. I had no idea what he had said, but I knew it was directed at me and was not positive.

I said, “Oye, chico, ¿crees que no lo entiendo?” Which is, “hey kid, you think I don’t understand?” I didn’t understand what he said, but I had picked up a few phrases. There was a Spanish grocery store close by and if you didn’t speak Spanish, they ignored you. So, I knew a little. I said this to the boy very sharply and called him chico rather than muchacho, which you would use for a man. He dropped his head and muttered ‘sorry.’ I said, “Bueno, and for the rest of our time in this class we will speak English since it summer and you are home all the time speaking Spanish.” One of the girls in my youth group came up to me afterward and said, “¡ oye, no sabía que hablabas Español!” (Hey, I didn’t know you spoke Spanish.) I had no idea what she said. She thought that was really funny.

Lots of memories of VBS. Sharing the Gospel to kids you would never get the chance to otherwise. But sometimes, well, never mind. Just keep all of it in prayer.

Blessings. (Bendiciones.)