I had a very humbling experience recently.
I was asked to speak about my book, Priceless Pennies: Rose and Odette, Unknown Children of the Holocaust, to a women’s group in a nearby town. To be honest, I love speaking about the miraculous journey God took me on to write this young adult novel. It is always such an honor – and a joy. But this speaking engagement was different because I was asked to come back to the small town where I spent a great deal of my early childhood.
I went to elementary school in this town for two years and attended church there until I was 11 years old. Plus, I spent almost every Sunday of my life there because my aunt cooked a huge Sunday dinner for us each week. My parents eventually retired to a home right next door. By that time, my husband and sons had joined our weekly family feasts, along with more than 20 other family members. Those times constitute some of the best memories of our lives.
When I went back to that small Mississippi town, I figured it would be an emotional day, especially since it was the first visit since my mother’s death in April. She was the last living person from her generation of our family, and it’s such a strange feeling to know that now we are the oldest generation. There’s no one else to go to for advice or prayer or family information. (Tag! We’re it!)
So, I was prepared for some nostalgic emotions, but I was totally unprepared for what happened in my heart. As I stood up there to speak to those precious women, many of whom were dear friends to my mother and aunt, I realized what an amazing gift I had been given in childhood. A gift I never really understood until that very moment.
The women of this small town gave me a legacy of faith, a legacy I did not deserve, appreciate, or even recognize as the treasure it was – and is.
In fact, a group of women from this church used to come to our small elementary school each week to lead a voluntary Bible club that offered us Bible lessons, crafts, activities, and an ongoing Bible memorization contest. Always a competitor, I won lots of prizes for reciting memory verses, one being my very first Bible. Ironically (or not so ironically), I found that old Bible a while back, packed away with some other keepsakes.
As I stood behind the podium that morning, it hit me that my love of God’s Word was birthed through that competition. In essence, those women, many of whom are now deceased, planted a seed in me that grew into an all-out love of the Bible. This one thought took my breath away for a moment.
I glanced around that sanctuary and really looked into the eyes of those women, but what I saw didn’t match my memories. The faces I remembered were young and flawless, devoid of wrinkles or worry lines. Those faces from my childhood were framed by fashionable hairdos, without silver or gray strands. Yet, the eyes looking back at me were the same.
In each precious face, I saw familiar eyes, dancing with love and joy for me – one of their babies. And as I gazed into their eyes, a myriad of memories came rushing to mind, scenes from classrooms, gymnasiums, Sunday school rooms, and even days spent riding my bike up and down the safe, familiar streets of my childhood. I could even hear their words of greeting, words of instruction, words of admonition, and words of praise.
In an instant, I was a little girl again, and it was so very humbling.
But then, as a writer and speaker, another thought hit me: Did Rose and Odette, the main characters in my book, have women like this in their Paris neighborhood in 1944? Did they have dozens of “mommas” looking out for them and teaching them (in word and deed) about the goodness of God?
I really don’t think so. For if there had been Christian women like these in their childhood, Rose and Odette might still be alive. If only one Christian neighbor had offered to help or hide them from the Nazis, their lives might have been spared.
From firsthand experience, I know that when women of God pour into their own children and the children around them, a legacy is birthed. A spiritual legacy that often lies unseen until times of trials and troubles demand faith in action. Then, that bedrock faith springs to life, ready to pray and stand rigidly defiant in the face of the enemy and his schemes.
That legacy of faith, first borne on the cruel cross of Golgotha, is sure, steadfast, and ever victorious. It is the greatest treasure known to men – or women and their children. That legacy could have changed the trajectory of the lives of Rose and Odette.
And that was the legacy I was given in this small Southern town of my earliest childhood.
I stood in that sanctuary so ashamed that I had never really seen this gift or understood its value until this one moment in time – the moment I stood to tell these women the story of Rose and Odette Aboulafia, two precious Jewish girls who were callously murdered in the gas chambers of Auschwitz.
How humbling to know that I was allowed to tell their story, not because of my writing skills or even my willingness to research until their story was found. I was allowed this weighty, wonderful task because these and so many other mighty women of God pointed me straight to God and the truth of His Word. Their obedience to do the everyday things God called them to do (including teaching and loving me) birthed the same obedience in me.
To put it plainly, I learned from these women of God that when He calls, there is only one acceptable answer, “Here I am, Lord. Send me.”
These women were sent to the classrooms and Sunday school classes of this small Mississippi town; I was sent to a desk and a computer a few miles away. But in the end, we were each assigned a task to share God’s gift of faith for we are all part of His family.
So, yes, I was humbled, and I can only pray that I pass this same legacy on to my children, grandchildren, and every single child God sends my way. It’s the least I can do for these precious ladies and the One Who lovingly sent them my way.
(Editor's Note: Click HERE to purchase Priceless Pennies: Rose and Odette, Unknown Children of the Holocaust.)
