I saw him in the church building for the first time  on Wednesday. He was in his mid-70's, with thinning  silver hair and a neat brown suit. Many times in the  past I had invited him to come to church. Several  other Christian friends had talked to him about the  Lord and had tried to share the good news with him.  He was a well-respected, honest man with so many characteristics a  Christian should have, but he had never accepted Christ, nor  entered the doors of the church.  

"Have you ever been to a church service in your  life?" I had asked him a few years ago. We had just finished a  pleasant day of visiting and talking.  

He hesitated. Then with a bitter smile he told me of  his childhood experience some fifty years ago. He  was one of many children in a large impoverished  family. His parents had struggled to provide food,  with little left for housing and clothing. When he  was about ten, some neighbors invited him to worship  with them. The Sunday School class had been very exciting!  

He had never heard such songs and stories before! He  had never heard anyone read from the Bible! After  class was over, the teacher took him aside and said,  "Son, please don't come again dressed as you are  now. We want to look our best when we come into  God's house."  

He stood in his ragged, un patched overalls. Then  looking at his dirty bare feet, he answered softly,  "No, ma'am, I won't-ever."  

"And I never did," he said, abruptly ending our conversation.  

There must have been other factors to have hardened  him so, but this experience formed a significant  part of the bitterness in his heart. I'm sure that  Sunday School teacher meant well. But did she really  understand the love of Christ? Had she studied  and accepted the teachings found in the second  chapter of James? What if she had put her arms  around the dirty, ragged little boy and said, "Son,  I am so glad you are here, and I hope you will come  back every chance you get to hear more about Jesus."  

I reflected on the awesome responsibility a teacher  or pastor or a parent has to welcome little ones in  His name. How far-reaching her influence was! I  prayed that I might be ever open to the tenderness  of a child's heart, and that I might never fail to  see beyond the appearance and behavior of a child to  the eternal possibilities within.  

Yes, I saw him in the church house for the first  time on Wednesday. As I looked at that immaculately dressed old  gentleman lying in his casket, I thought of the little boy of long  ago. I could almost hear  him say, "No, ma'am, I won't-ever."  

And I wept.  

~ Author Unknown