My (Sue) parents taught me a lot about the practical aspects of faith and practice. I grew up in rural Arkansas with very strong Methodist roots. My dad, John McCoy Nutt, was born in 1916, and had even been named after John Wesley and the bishop by a circuit-riding preacher. The preacher and Bishop McCoy were staying with my grandparents as they came through town just a week after my dad was born.
Until my appointment to mission service, there had been no clergy in our family history—just a host of lay leaders, church trustees, Sunday school superintendents and teachers, music leaders and folks who saw that the church bills were paid, records were kept, the door was unlocked and the grass mowed, the stoves lit or the air conditioners on, and the pews dusted and floors swept.
There was no discussion each week about church attendance—we were always there! Or what to put in the offering plate. My parents prepared their Bible study lessons on Saturday nights and on Sundays my mom wrote the checks and slipped them into the offering plate while my dad led the music during worship. I was given two quarters each week, one for Sunday school and one for worship. The plate never passed without something being put in.
While that sounds like a pretty “religious” upbringing, it wasn’t. And that’s not what truly influenced my faith. It was what happened outside of church. It happened when my mom mowed yards for older people who couldn’t do it themselves. Mom mowed yards well into her 80s, at one time mowing five yards besides her own. And of course, the church yard!
It was when my dad went out on cold, dark nights to deliver gas to a family who had discovered after work that their tank was empty. He drove a propane gas truck as an independent contractor, and he figured that people were going to have a hard time sleeping and then getting the kids to school if they had to spend the night in a cold house with no hot breakfast the next morning.
It was when my mom walked every day to the post office (she didn’t drive) to pick up mail for a neighbor who was homebound, then for another who had “bad knees” and couldn’t get out. The list went on and on.
It was when a family traveling through our town ran low on gas on Christmas Eve with 30 miles to go to get home that night. My dad and I packed them into our Pontiac and took them home, leaving their car in our driveway until they could return a few days later with gas.
It was when my mom transplanted wildflowers from her yard for her new Mexican neighbor’s yard and showed her how to water and care for them, even though they spoke different languages.
What most influenced my faith was not what my parents talked about or the church we attended, but what I observed about their own faith in everyday life. They normally and naturally did “what Christian people do.” Today, I realize that I’ve made their faith and faith practices my own. My parents have always been deeply rooted in spirituality and practice, striving each day to do what Jesus would have done in each situation they faced. My dad passed away when I was 21. But as I lean toward ministries of accompaniment and pastoral care, toward addressing social and community needs, toward treating others as Jesus would treat them, I’m continuing my family’s strong legacy of faith practice and passing it along to my sons and their families. And I know my dad is there, guiding my heart and steps in the right direction.
