CHASING LOVE AND FINDING GRACE

CHAPTER 2: MY CHURCH CHRONICLES

At the time, I was 13—armed with nothing but a Bible, a few shoddy craft ideas, and a truckload of blind optimism. I quickly realised that Sunday school wasn’t some tranquil journey to spiritual enlightenment; it was more like a battlefield. My opponents? Pint-sized, biscuit-chomping gladiators with more questions than a quiz show. And me? A very unprepared knight charging headfirst into the chaos.

---

Ah, Noah’s Ark. The perfect tale to kick-start my teaching journey—or so I thought. I imagined it would be all adorable animal drawings, pleasant chats about rainbows, and maybe a chorus of “Rise and Shine.” Instead, I was faced with a room full of biblical critics.

“So, Noah built a big boat…” I began, my voice as cheerful as a Disney princess. Oh, how wrong I was.

A hand shot up—naturally. “Miss, did Noah have a driving licence for the boat?”

Before I could even process that, another child piped up, “Yeah, and what if he got a parking ticket? My dad always gets them when he parks badly.”

I was gobsmacked. Parking tickets on an enormous ark? My teaching script was already sinking like the Titanic, but before I could paddle my way back to safety, another boy bellowed, “Miss! Did they bring ketchup on the boat? I’d never eat without ketchup!”

Just as I opened my mouth to restore some dignity, a tiny voice from the back asked, “Miss, were there mermaids in the flood? Because I’d like to be one.”

Mermaids. Right. As if my lesson wasn’t already a shipwreck, this one sent me straight into a tailspin. “Er, no mermaids,” I stammered, wishing I had prepared for this Noah-on-trial scenario.

The chaos reached its crescendo when a boy declared, “I think the lions probably ate the rabbits,” followed by a dramatic gasp from another child, “NO! That’s not fair!” Before long, the room devolved into a full-blown debate about ark seating arrangements and whether Noah could’ve just ordered pizza for the animals instead of packing food.

Realising that I was losing the battle and that I might need a miracle, I announced with forced enthusiasm, “Let’s DRAW Noah’s Ark!” hoping to redirect the energy. For five glorious minutes, it worked, and I saw masterpieces ranging from rainbow-filled boats to something that suspiciously looked like a pirate ship. But peace was short-lived. A boy proudly held up his drawing of an ark on fire and said, “This is what would happen if the lions got angry.”

---

The next Sunday, I decided to tackle the concept of faith. “Faith,” I began with newfound confidence, “is believing in something you can’t see.” Simple enough, right? Oh, how wrong I was.

As soon as I uttered those words, a hand shot up like a missile. “Like my invisible friend Alfie?”

“Er… sort of,” I said, fidgeting with the Bible, trying to figure out how I was going to make this all sound sensible. “But faith is more about believing in God, even though you can’t see Him,” I explained, thinking I’d finally hit on a solid answer.

A couple of nods here and there. I thought I was safe. I was wrong.

“Miss, does that mean God’s like a secret agent?” A boy at the front asked, his face completely deadpan.

“Er…” I was momentarily stunned. “A secret agent?” I asked, trying to process this new idea.

“Yeah!” he said, his eyes wide with excitement. “Like James Bond! He’s always around, but you can’t see him unless he needs to do something really dramatic. Maybe God’s just undercover—like, you know, hiding in plain sight!”

The whole class erupted into giggles. I was just about to explain how God is not a secret agent when another child from the back yelled, “What if He’s hiding in my sock drawer? I’ve never found anything in there except socks and my brother’s lost Lego pieces!”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “I promise, God isn’t hiding in your sock drawer,” I said, feeling more and more like I was chasing a rabbit down a hole. “God is always with us, even when we can’t see Him.”

A little girl raised her hand and said, “Miss, if God’s always with us, can He see us when we’re picking our noses?”

The room went quiet for a moment, and I swear I saw a few children dramatically wipe their noses, just in case. “Yes, He sees everything,” I said, trying to sound serious. “But He loves us anyway.”

The boy in the back—there’s always one—shouted, “So, is God like the ultimate CCTV camera?” He looked genuinely concerned. “Does He have a screen in Heaven where He watches everything we do? Like a big TV, with all our embarrassing moments on it?”

The idea of God sitting in Heaven with a bowl of popcorn, watching children pick their noses, was honestly too much to bear. “No! God is not watching us like a reality TV show,” I said, trying not to giggle. “He’s with us in our hearts, and He knows us deeply—no need for cameras.”

Just then, one cheeky little boy who hadn’t spoken all the lessons raised his hand, his face full of determination. “Miss, Miss, what if God is playing hide-and-seek with us, like a game? Maybe He’s just waiting for the right moment to jump out from behind a bush and go, ‘BOO!’”

The whole class roared with laughter, and I was nearly on the floor laughing with them. The image of God popping out from behind a tree like a mischievous child playing hide-and-seek was just too ridiculous. I wiped my eyes, trying to regain some composure. “No, no, no,” I managed to say, “God doesn’t play hide-and-seek like that. He’s always near us, even if we can’t see Him.”

“But Miss,” came a voice from the back, “if He’s always near us, why don’t we feel Him when we’re eating our chocolate bars in secret?”

The whole room went silent, waiting for my answer. “Well,” I said, thinking on my feet, “God’s always near us, even when we’re eating chocolate bars—whether we’re eating them in secret or not.” I paused. “But He might want you to share some of that chocolate with your friends, just saying!”

“Or maybe He wants to try a bit of the chocolate!” one kid yelled out. “What if God loves chocolate more than we do?”

By now, the entire class was in stitches. “Okay, okay,” I said, trying to steer us back on track. “Let’s all agree that God is not playing hide-and-seek, He doesn’t watch us on TV, and He’s definitely not sneaking around in our cupboards. Faith is believing in God even though we can’t see Him, and trusting that He’s with us in all the moments of our lives—even when we’re eating chocolate!”

A boy at the front piped up, looking completely serious, “So, Miss, does that mean when I’m hiding my chocolate under my pillow, I can’t hide it from God?”

I looked at him for a moment. “Nope, you can’t hide anything from God—especially not your chocolate!”

The class burst into laughter, and I realised that, while I may have lost control of the lesson, I’d definitely won them over in the process.

So, by the end of the lesson, we’d reached an understanding—sort of. God wasn’t a secret agent, He didn’t hide in sock drawers or CCTV screens, and He definitely wasn’t waiting behind bushes to jump out at us. But He was everywhere, and whether we saw Him or not, He was there, guiding us, loving us, and occasionally enjoying a bit of chocolate... if you’re lucky.

And honestly? That’s the most peace I was going to get on a Sunday morning in Sunday school.

—

Another Sunday, and I was on fire. I had planned the ultimate re-enactment of David and Goliath, complete with props. Well, okay, by "props," I meant a sock for the sling and a rolled-up piece of paper for Goliath’s sword. I was feeling confident—this was the Sunday my Sunday school teaching would be remembered in history. I could already hear the applause from future generations.

I stood before the class, holding the sock like it was Excalibur. “And David swung his sling like this!” I demonstrated, spinning the sock over my head like I was auditioning for an Olympic hammer-throwing competition. The kids were wide-eyed, their attention locked on me. This was it. They were about to witness the most dramatic Bible reenactment of all time.

“Miss!” A hand shot up like a rocket. “Why didn’t David just use a sword? Or better yet, a chainsaw?”

I froze, the sock still in mid-air, a few inches away from a child’s face. “Er... well, they didn’t have chainsaws back then,” I said, flustered, trying to suppress the rising panic. The child looked unimpressed.

“I’d use a frying pan,” she said, crossing her arms like she was preparing to fight Goliath herself. “Imagine—WHAM! Goliath wouldn’t see it coming!”

I blinked. “A frying pan?” I repeated. The idea was so ludicrous, it actually made sense. “That’s… that’s an interesting strategy,” I said, trying to keep the lesson on track.

Another boy piped up from the back of the room, his face practically glowing with excitement. “Or a bazooka! Can you imagine Goliath getting hit with a bazooka? BOOM! He'd be toast!”

I stared at them. Was I still teaching the Bible, or had I just walked onto the set of Fast & Furious: Goliath Edition? These kids had turned my carefully planned reenactment into a military brainstorm session. "Okay, okay," I said, raising my hands in surrender. "David used what he had—a sling. That's how he defeated Goliath."

One of the kids, clearly unimpressed by the simplicity of a sling, leaned back in his chair and shook his head. "Miss, that’s boring. I’d just drop a meteor on Goliath. Like in the movies.”

"That's not how the story goes!" I protested, but they weren’t listening. They were too deep in their conversation about which fictional weapon would have made David’s job easier.

“Miss, I’ve got an idea,” another girl said, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Why not use a jet fighter to just fly over Goliath’s head and drop bombs on him?”

I rubbed my temples, fighting back the laugh that was threatening to escape. "The jet fighter didn’t exist back then either!" I said, my patience hanging by a thread. But in their eyes, I could see the wheels turning. A jet fighter—yes, that would’ve done the trick.

“Or what if David had a drone?” suggested a boy, already imagining himself flying a remote-controlled helicopter. “That way, Goliath wouldn’t even know what hit him. He’d just be like, ‘What’s that noise?’ and BAM!”

This was getting out of hand. “Okay, okay, that’s enough!” I laughed, trying to bring the conversation back down to earth. “David used a simple sling, and with God's help, he defeated Goliath.”

The kids exchanged glances, clearly unsatisfied with the lack of explosions in my version of the story.

“I’m just saying,” one of the kids said, “if David had a light sabre, Goliath would have been defeated in like two seconds.”

I blinked, a bit stunned by the sheer creativity in the room. “A light sabre?” I muttered, rubbing my forehead. “Right. Sure. A light sabre.”

---

Memory verse competitions were supposed to be my time to shine, right? A quick, easy way to get the kids excited about Scripture. Memorise a verse, recite it, and boom—points for everyone! What could go wrong?

Enter Samuel, the pastor’s son, who clearly had a secret deal with God to memorise the entire Bible before the age of six. Samuel didn’t just recite verses; he rattled them off like a human Bible machine. I was still struggling with the first part of the verse when Samuel stood up with all the dramatic flair of a Broadway star.

"I am the light of the world!" he proclaimed, voice booming. The other kids stared at him like he had just defied gravity. "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me!" he added, seamlessly transitioning to another verse.

By the time he finished, he was practically glowing, his confidence radiating like he had just won a gold medal in Bible Olympics. “I am victorious in the name of Jesus!” he finished with a flourish, bowing as if the applause was already pouring in.

The other kids were frozen, eyes wide, mouths hanging open. It was like Samuel had just walked into a room, dropped a theological mic, and left everyone speechless. There was no way they could compete.

Meanwhile, a smaller boy tugged my sleeve with all the intensity of someone preparing for a race. “Miss, can I have the anointing oil?” he asked, his face filled with determination. “I need it to bless my spelling test. The devil is trying to mess me up, Miss.”

“Uh, I don’t think the anointing oil works for spelling tests…” I said, unsure how to respond.

"But Miss," another girl interrupted, holding up her notebook. "What if I memorise the entire Bible? Do I get extra biscuits?"

“Extra biscuits?” I repeated, my brain trying to process the logic. “Er… focus on this week’s verse, and we’ll talk about biscuits later.”

“Yeah!” another voice shouted from the back. “If I memorise the whole Bible, do I get pizza?”

I opened my mouth to respond but was immediately cut off by a kid who seemed to have done his own version of the “Bible Jeopardy” challenge. “Miss,” he said with the smugness of someone who had just solved a Rubik's Cube in under a minute, “if I can recite the names of all the apostles backwards, do I get a big bag of crisps?”

The competition had become less about Bible verses and more about snack-based rewards. “You know what?” I said, laughing in disbelief, “I’ll see what I can do about the crisps. Just, please, no more memorising the entire Bible.”

“Miss, can I also get a holy biscuit?” one child asked innocently, raising his hand like he was making a reasonable request. “The ones with extra icing.”

---

Every Sunday felt like a new episode of a comedy show. I thought I was prepared, but every week was an entirely new adventure in chaos. It was as if the kids had their own personal idea of what faith should look like, and it often involved snack foods, superheroes, and existential questions about angels’ personal technology choices.

One Sunday, a child decided they were going to baptise their biscuit in orange squash. At first, I thought it was a joke, but then I realised they were entirely serious. “Miss, I’m just testing the waters,” the child said with complete confidence as they dunked the biscuit, watching it soggily absorb the liquid. I blinked. Was this what my life had come to? I was now the overseer of biscuit baptisms?

The chaos continued. A child raised his hand and asked, “Miss, do angels have iPhones? Like, do they text each other?”

“Angels… texting?” I said, trying to make sense of the question. “Er, I don’t think they need phones to communicate. They’re a bit more… divine.”

“Yeah, but what if they text God? Like, ‘Hey, I’m on my way, be there in five minutes’?” The child was genuinely concerned, furrowing his brows.

Another child chimed in. “Do you think God has a favourite emoji?”

That was it. I couldn’t hold it together anymore. I burst out laughing. “I don’t know, but I’m sure He has an emoji for ‘I’m always watching,’” I said, trying to compose myself.

As the lesson went on, I realised something profound. These kids weren’t just learning Bible stories—they were living them. Questioning them. Reinterpreting them. Making them their own. In their minds, faith wasn’t some distant, serious concept—it was a part of everyday life. They saw God in everything—even in the biscuits and the iPhones.

And that’s when it hit me: maybe that’s what faith really is. It’s not about having all the answers. It’s about embracing the questions. Laughing at the absurdity. Finding joy in the mess. Because let’s face it—if God didn’t have a sense of humour, He probably wouldn’t have made me a Sunday school teacher.

By the end of every Sunday, I was exhausted. My voice was gone, my patience thinner than a piece of paper, and I had answered more questions about ketchup than theology. But still, I couldn’t help but smile. I had taught