|Vicki's Holiday Tradition of Making Oreo Turkeys for everyone|
Those turkeys pop open in a facebook post and memories wash over me. I remember my days as a teaching assistant at a Christian school in California. Laughter, friendship, hearts knit tightly with love. Joy found in the everyday. Smiles brushed warm hellos between classrooms. Hands clasped in prayer over hurting hearts. God's word the balm, the light, the prescription. "Walk the talk," a phrase that flowed like breath, in and out. My heart reaches back with yearning.
We shared our lives. The real. The truth. The hurt. The fear. The joy. The silly. Parties with outrageous gag gifts. Recipes. Classroom projects. School-wide activities. Prayer walks. Earthquake drills. Jog-a-thons.
We teachers, assistants, staff bound by a call to minister Christ's love to His little ones. To teach and educate in God's wisdom and strength. Excellence the hallmark, academically and Biblically.
Mornings gathered with little ones by the flagpole. Innocence permeated damp air. Pudgy hands spread over hearts pledged allegiance to God and country--two flags--one Christ's, the other Stars and Stripes forever!
"Trust and obey, for there's no other way to be happy in Jesus, but to trust and obey," the pure voices sang.
Tears choke as memories flash, but they give way to joy and gratefulness for the years I was blessed to be wrapped in this all encompassing love. Years and love intertwined with the name--West Valley Christian Academy.
My memories rich. My heart full of thanks.
"How good and pleasant it is when brothers live together in unity!
"It is like precious oil poured on the head, running down on the beard,
running down on Aaron's beard, down upon the collar of his robes.
" It is as if the dew of Hermon were falling on Mount Zion.
For there the Lord bestows his blessing; even life forevermore." Psalm 133 NIV
What memories are stirred when you think of blessed times shared with other Christians?
Linking with Imperfect Prose on Thursdays
Labels: Christian Inspiration, Friendship, imperfect prose