by Travis Moore

As a kid, I always loved Saturdays. I was free to ride my bike, watch some sports, or crank up some Mario Bros. on the old Nintendo. Sundays? Not so much. I had to get up early, rush through breakfast, and head down to Manly Memorial Baptist Church from 9am until 12pm.

Like just about every Southern Baptist Church ever, there was a Sunday School hour followed by “service.” As a ten-year-old, I never really understood that label. To me, service was what we got from the McDonald’s workers after church, or what Pa-Pa called his cable TV plan. As it turns out, that word would play a major part of my faith journey.

When I think about all those who played a part in my journey to know and serve Jesus, I cannot help but feel anything but blessed. So many people gave their time, effort, money, and patience to me. I think of Mary Carol, who taught me in both Sunday School and in the Royal Ambassador program (yes, I still have all of my pins). Dr. Harvey, my pastor for so many years, certainly played a role as well. Then there is my mom, who dragged me encouraged me to go with her to church each Sunday. More recent influences on my spiritual growth are my wife, my father-in-law, my pastor, and even my children. Of course, this is not an article about every single person that has had a positive impact on me during my ongoing walk to and with Jesus. Instead, it is a narrowed down focus on one person. And, it is with her that the story picks back up.

An 11am visit to the Manly Memorial sanctuary in Lexington, Virginia on just about any Sunday would be the exact same. You’d likely notice the beautiful stained-glass images that ran down each side wall, the thin carpet in the shade of some unidentifiable pinkish color, and the wooden pews that I am certain were from the original 1841 building. Then, you would see me and my brother coming up the aisle, Sunday School crafts in tow. It was usually some sort of connect-the-dot of Noah, or Moses, or Daniel. Occasionally we had to tote around a heftier project made out of clothespin or a pinecone or something.

By this point, my sweater had begun to itch, and my penny loafers grew uncomfortable. The back pew is where I headed. It was a good Baptist church, because everyone sat in the same pew every single Sunday. I suppose guests just had to sit down and hope no one would stop by later and boot them from their seats. In that back pew sat one of my favorite people of all-time, and the subject of this writing: my grandma. That’s what I called her: “grandma.” Her actual name was Elizabeth, but everyone in town called her Lib. I am not sure why, come to think of it. I have known about a thousand Elizabeths, but none have used that nickname. Every Sunday, she sat beside me in service. She helped me find the songs in the hymnal, snuck me some candy when no one was looking, and let me use her leg as an extended roadway for my Matchbox cars.

Grandma was the ultimate servant for her church, and a great Christian example for me. She spent hours and hours and hours making Chrismon ornaments for church trees, dolls for the children on inmates, and food for just about every church gathering. At some point she realized that we had enough ornaments and dolls so she began wrapping shoeboxes for Operation Christmas Child. Grandma was always looking for ways to serve without being noticed, which is the true beauty of how she lived her life for Christ. To me, she was just “grandma.” I spent about as much time at her house as I did my own as a kid and had no idea that she did all of those things for so many other people.

Her influence on my spiritual journey was not about the importance of memorizing Scripture, diving deep into a theological topic, or even making Christmas trees out of pinecones in Sunday School. Rather, it was about how to live practically as a Christian servant. She would often spout off the golden rule and talk about Jesus’s humility. To me, “service” was a both a McDonald’s worker, a cable TV subscription, and where I went after Sunday School; to grandma it was a verb. Her actions as a literal servant for Christ had such a significant influence on me and what it really looked like to be a Christian.

Once, when I was well into my thirties, I went to visit her for a weekend in Lexington. Before heading to bed on Saturday night, she told me that we’d have to leave a little early in the morning because she had to pick up her friend, Sylvia Loudermilk on the way to church.

“She is almost ninety, and can’t drive herself to church,” grandma said. “I have been driving her each week.” At that time, my grandma was 85 years old.