Book by Its Cover

Book by Its Cover r. Kasses scared me half to death. My life followed a set routine with few . Surprises.

Monday to Friday, my sister and I went to school, Dad went to work, and Mom was the glue that held us together. Before I entered the fourth grade at the ripe old age of nine, all of my teachers had been women.

For the preceding five years, from September through June, someone who looked like she could be my mother or grandmother taught me read- ing, writing, and arithmetic. We weren’t churchgoers. Sunday mornings were for sleeping late. The family Bible sat on a shelf—I don’t remember it ever being opened.

Then one day my aunt decided that my sister and I were missing an important part of life and that we should attend church. Actually, she brought us to Sunday school. And the teacher for fourth through sixth grade Sunday school was ...a man! Not just any man, but one who looked as if he were old enough to be my grandfather’s father.

Mr. Kasses moved slowly and had thinning gray hair. Time had 178 MAKING A DIFFERENCE 179 left its mark, etching a host of wrinkles on his face. A generous sprinkling of age spots joined those wrinkles on his face as well as on his hands.

Sunday school classes were held in the fellowship hall of the church, each class in its own corner, parti- tioned by curtains. The small building was simple and sturdy. An old furnace provided heat in the winter. During the summer, the only cooling came from huge industrial fans on tall poles that pushed hot, humid air around the room.

Even so, every Sunday Mr. Kasses arrived dressed the same way, in a crisply pressed suit complete with white shirt, tie, and jacket. He had a well-deserved reputation for being a stickler for the rules. And he had a lot of rules.

We had to arrive on time, no grace period for lateness. We had to bring our Bibles to class every week. We had to complete our homework—Sunday school homework!—every week. Of course, this wasn’t the first time I’d been in a classroom with a teacher who had rules.

But until now my teachers had been extremely understanding—you might even say nurturing—when we students didn’t meet their standards. After all, we were only children.

But Mr. Kasses did not believe in coddling. He treated us like young adults, not little children. He communi- cated high standards of behavior and expected us to comply, without explanation, excuse, or exception.

I didn’t like this at all, especially the part about 180 . FOR THE LOVE OF GOD homework. In fact I wondered if he even had a right to do it. Surely there had to be a law somewhere that said only real teachers (the Monday-to-Friday kind) were allowed to assign homework!

But Mr. Kasses also intrigued me. He wasn’t quite what he appeared to be. Maybe it was the way he took the time to answer our questions, never belittling us or making us feel like we had asked a stupid question.

Maybe it was the way his eyes lit up when we finally grasped a particular detail, his head nodding slowly as if he had never heard the truth we had just discov- ered for ourselves. Maybe it was my amazement when I overheard someone say that it was Mr.

Kasses—Mr. Kasses/—who purchased the candy that was distributed to all the children in our church every Christmas. Most of all, it was the way he held his Bible. He car- ried a big, heavy, leather Bible.

The rest of us, children and adults, carried our Bibles as we would any other book. Not Mr. Kasses. He held his Bible reverently, he turned the pages gently, and he read each word with an obviously cherished respect for the Author.

His Bible was more than a book to him—it was the book. He quoted verses and principles from it in answer to every one of our questions. I also sensed, without him actually saying it, that this same Book was the source of answers for his own questions. No matter what the subject, he knew where to look.

It was his precious possession—his anchor—and I was determined to find out why. I wanted what Mr. Kasses had—real, time-tested, unshakable faith. Knowledge and understanding of his Bible had provided a solid foundation and a calm assurance for his faith during his long and sometimes difficult life.

My life was just beginning, but I knew he had something I needed. He birthed a spark in me and then fanned the flame to hunger for something more.

Mr. Kasses was the first teacher to treat me like a young lady instead of a child. And he expected me to behave accordingly. But his impact on my life is much more significant than that.

He taught me to look beyond myself to seek my life’s purpose. And he pointed me to a relationship with the Creator of the Universe— the one who loved me enough to send His Son, Jesus Christ, to die for me. Not everyone believed as he did, but that didn’t bother him.

Our doubts and questions didn’t trouble him, either—not even when one of the boys in our class told him he thought these were nice stories, but only stories. Never once did I hear Mr. Kasses argue or raise his voice or belittle someone else’s beliefs. Still, his own never wavered.

For three years he taught me, and the others in my class, that the Bible is not just another book. He pre- pared me for the turbulent teenage years by giving me my very own anchor. That anchor protected me from making the wrong choices many of my friends made. It helped me to see a world beyond my own difficult circumstances.

For that I am eternally grateful. I now have the privilege of teaching and writing about my own faith and how others can also have a rela- tionship with the Creator of the Universe. Mr. Kasses’s legacy lives on.

Someday, I will have the opportunity to thank him.