After arriving home from my last day of first grade, I announced to my parents how glad I was that school was finally over, and that I did not have to go back ever again. My parents’ expressions waxed blank. It took at least thirty seconds before one of them, my father I think, broke the news that I would have to go back that fall, after the summer was over. My joy had instantly turned to mourning. “For how long?” I asked. “For another year,” he said. As difficult as that sounded, another year might not be too bad. I had made it through one. I could do it again. And then it would be all over. . . . A thought came that nearly knocked the wind out of me. “What about after that? Was there any more school after that?” “Yes,” came the hesitant reply. “Well, how long?” “Twelve years. . . in all.” “TWELVE!” I bellowed. To a six year old (I started when I was five), that was like saying it would be a zillion millennia. As one may correctly guess, when ...
Thoughts on the Reformed faith, preparation for ministry, and doing all to the glory of God.