Kids Have A Way Of Thinking

Last week I took my children to a restaurant. My six-year-old son asked if he could say grace. As we bowed our heads he said, "God is good. God is great. Thank you for the food and I would even thank you more if mom gets us ice-cream for dessert. And Liberty and justice for all! Amen!" Along with the laughter from the other customers nearby I heard a woman remark. "That's what's wrong with this country. Kids today don't even know how to pray. Asking God for ice-cream! Why I never!" Hearing this, my son burst into tears and asked me, "Did I do it wrong? Is God mad at me?" As I held him and assured him that he had done a terrific job and God was certainly not mad at him, an elderly gentleman approached the table. He winked at my son and said, "I happen to know that God thought that was a great prayer." "Really?" my son asked. "Cross my heart." Then in theatrical whisper he added; indicating the woman whose remark had started this whole thing, "Too bad she never asks God for ice-cream. A little ice-cream is good for the soul sometimes." Naturally I bought my kid's ice-cream at the end of the meal. My son stared at his for a moment and then did something I will remember the rest of my life. He picked up his sundae and without a word walked over and placed it in front of the woman. With a big smile he told her, "Here, this is for you. Ice-cream is good for the soul sometimes and my soul is good already." Of all my children he is by far my most . . . trying. The quickest to anger, the first one to break something, and the last one to do as he's told. None of it matters though, cause like he said, his soul is good already!

WHOEVER READS THIS IS A LIFETIME MEMBER IN GOOD STANDING IN THE SOCIETY OF CHILDLIKE GROWNUPS AND IS HEREBY ENTITLED TO:

Walk in the rain, JUMP in mud puddles, collect rainbows, smell flowers, Blow bubbles, ooOoO stop along the way, build sandcastles, watch the moon and stars come out, Say HELLO to everyone, go barefoot, go on adventures, Sing in the shower, Have a Merry heart , read children's books, Act silly, take bubble baths, get new sneakers, hold hands & hug & kiss, dance, Fly Kites, laugh out loud and cry out loud, wander around, wonder (???) about stuff, Feel SCARED & sad ;-( & MAD & Happy, Give up worry & guilt & shame, stay innocent, say yes and no and the magic words, ask lots of questions, RIDE BICYCLES!!! draw and paint and color, see things differently, fall down and get up again, Talk with animals, look at the sky, trust the universe, stay up late, Climb trees, take naps, do nothing, daydream, Play with toys, play under the covers, have pillow fights, learn new stuff, get excited about EVERYTHING, be a clown, listen to music, find out how things work, Make up new rules, tell stories, save the world, make friends, and do anything that brings more: happiness, celebration, relaxation, communication, health, love, joy, creativity, pleasure, abundance, grace, self-esteem, courage, balance, spontaneity, passion, peace, beauty, and life energy to all humans and beings of this planet.

FURTHERMORE, the above named member is officially authorized to frequent amusement parks, beaches, meadows, mountaintops, swimming pools, forests, playgrounds, picnic areas, summer areas, summer camps, birthday parties, circuses, bakeries, ice cream parlors, theaters, aquariums, zoos, museums, planetariums, toy stores, festivals and other places where children of all ages gather to play AND is encouraged to always remember the motto of THE SOCIETY OF CHILDLIKE GROWNUPS: IT'S NEVER TOO LATE TO HAVE A HAPPY CHILDHOOD, AND TO MAKE SURE THAT OTHERS DO TOO!

The Room

In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room. There were no distinguishing features save for the one wall covered with small index card files. They were like the ones in libraries that list titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. But these files, which stretched from floor to ceiling and seemingly endlessly in either direction, had very different headings. As I drew near the wall of files, the first to catch my attention was one that read "People I Have Liked". I opened it and began flipping through the cards. I quickly shut it, shocked to realize that I recognized the names written on each one.

And then without being told, I knew exactly where I was. This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalog system for my life. Here were written the actions of my every moment, big and small, in a detail my memory couldn't match.

A sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me as I began randomly opening files and exploring their content. Some brought joy and sweet memories; others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching. A file named "Friends" was next to the one marked "Friends I Have Betrayed".

The titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird. "Books I Have Read", "Lies I Have Told", "Comfort I Have Given", "Jokes I Have Laughed At". Some were almost hilarious in their exactness: "Things I've Yelled at My Brothers." Others I couldn't laugh at: "Things I Have Done in My Anger", "Things I Have Muttered Under My Breath at My Parents". I never ceased to be surprised by the contents. Often there were many more cards than I expected. Sometimes fewer than I hoped.

I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had Lived. Could it be possible that I had the time in my 20 years to write each of these thousands or even millions of cards? But each card confirmed this truth. Each was written in my own handwriting. Each signed with my signature.

When I pulled out the file marked "Songs I Have Listened To", I realized the files crew to contain their contents. The cards were packed tightly, and yet after two or three yards, I hadn't found the end of the file. I shut it, shamed, not so much by the quality of the music, but more by the vast amount of time I knew that file represented.

When I came to a file marked "Lustful Thoughts", I felt a chill run through my body. I pulled the file out only an inch, not willing to test it's size, and drew out a card. I shuddered at it's detailed content. I felt sick to think that such a moment had been recorded.

An almost animal rage broke on me. One thought dominated my mind: "No one must ever see these cards! No one must ever see this room! I have to destroy them!" In an insane frenzy I yanked the file out. It's size didn't matter now. I had to empty it and burn the cards. But as I took it at one end and began pounding it on the floor, I could not dislodge a single card. I became desperate and pulled out a card, only to find it as strong as steel when I tried to tear it.

Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to it's slot. Leaning my forehead against the wall, I let out a long, self-pitying sigh. And then I saw it. The title bore "People I Have Shared the Gospel With". The handle was brighter than those around it, newer, almost unused. I pulled on it's handle and a small box not more than three inches long fell into my hands. I could count the cards it contained on one hand.

And then the tears came. I began to weep. Sobs so deep that I the hurt started in my stomach and shook through me. I fell on my knees and cried. I cried out of shame, from the overwhelming shame of it all. The rows of the file shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No one must ever, ever know of this room. I must lock it up and hide the key.

But then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Him. No, please not Him. Not here. Oh, anyone but Jesus. I watched helplessly as He began to open the files and read the cards. I couldn't bear to watch His response. And in the moments I could bring myself to look at His face, I saw a sorrow deeper than my own. He seemed to intuitively go to the worst boxes. Why did He have to read every one?

Finally He turned and looked at me from across the room. He looked at me with pity in His eyes. But this was a pity that didn't anger me. I dropped my head, covered my face with my hands and began to cry again. He walked over and put His arm around me. He could have said so many things. But He didn't say a word. He just cried with me.

Then He got up and walked back to the wall of files. Starting at one end of the room, He took out a file and, one by one, began to sign His name over mine on each card.

"No!" I shouted rushing to Him. All I could find to say was "No, no," as I pulled the card from Him. His name shouldn't be on these cards. But there it was, written in red so rich, so dark, so alive. The name of Jesus covered mine. It was written with His blood.

He gently took the card back. He smiled a sad smile and began to sign the cards. I don't think I'll ever understand how He did it so quickly, but the next instant it seemed I heard Him close the last file and walk back to my side. He placed His hand on my shoulder and said, "It is finished."

I stood up, and He led me out of the room. There was no lock on it's door. There were still cards to be written.

-Author Unknown