A Child's Faith
Stories
Now, That's A Miracle!
Reflections On Faith And Life
We're happy that our little grandson Gray
enjoys the times he spends the night with us.
Because he loves the bedtime games we play,
he always goes to bed without a fuss.
Indeed, he bounces up the stairs with joy,
anticipating a "Good night" routine
well calculated to delight a boy
who knows his lines in this well-practiced scene.
So when we've finished all the games once more,
I say, "I think it's time to go to sleep."
And then I make a move toward the door.
But Gray, who knows just what to say to keep
me there, reminds me that I haven't yet
told him a story. "What about?" I ask.
He knows just what reply will always get
me to remain: " 'bout Jesus!" That's a task
he knows I can't refuse. And so I smile
and take my seat again upon his bed.
Then, after I have thought a little while,
about the many things that I have said,
in all the stories I've already told
about the love of Jesus for us all,
I try to talk in words a six-year-old
will understand and later on recall.
One night, when I had told how Jesus had
raised Lazarus, his good friend, from the dead,
I thought, "How can I help this little lad
to deal with such a concept in his head?"
The two of us were soon deeply engrossed
in theological discussion. Gray
was listening intently, and was most
intrigued by everything I had to say
about how even though we cannot see
the Christ, we still can love him as a Friend,
unseen, but real. It is a mystery
a six-year-old would hardly comprehend,
one might have thought. "Gray, can you understand?"
He nodded, as I went on to explain.
"He's always here in spirit, and his hand
is reaching out to heal when we're in pain.
Wherever you may go, you can be glad
he'll be there when you need him. And if you
should ever do something you know is bad,
he will forgive you, if you ask him to,
because he loves you, Gray, and what is more
he'll be your Friend forever! Even when
you die, you can be absolutely sure
that you will be with him in heaven." Then,
I asked Gray what he thought of what I'd said,
as I stood up to go turn out the light.
My grandson, who was lying in the bed,
was wiggling with furious delight!
No wonder Jesus wants us all to turn
and be like little children in our praise.
For what we lukewarm Christians need to learn
is childlike trust and joy in Christ -- like Gray's!
Prodigal Parallel46
My brother Herb was seventeen, when he one day in May
got up at dawn, loaded his car, and quietly drove away.
He left a note to tell our parents not to worry, for
he'd make a fortune and not be a burden any more.
Before that morning I had never seen my father cry.
The news hit both my parents like a ton of bricks, and I,
a twelve-year-old, did not know what to think, or say, or do,
for why my brother would run off like that nobody knew.
My brother's disappearance was reported right away.
Police were searching everywhere throughout the U. S. A.
My father blamed himself, because he felt that he had failed.
It was a mystery in view of all that it entailed,
for as an intellectual my brother had few peers.
He'd sparkled at Johns Hopkins University three years,
where he was one of the best students they had ever seen.
He would have graduated at the age of just eighteen.
He might have been too smart for his own good, and maybe bored.
There was a fascinating world out there to be explored.
Herb had been difficult to raise, my parents often said;
no punishment or force could drive a notion from his head.
He scoffed at unexamined rules and hated to be bossed.
In his rebelliousness he sometimes failed to count the cost.
I, on the other hand, they said, was more obedient.
I almost never had to suffer any punishment.
My brother thought that I received more love from them than he,
but they'd spent far more raising Herb than they had spent on me.
They bought him a used car to drive to Hopkins every day,
and that's the vehicle he used to make his getaway.
He'd told no one at all his plans, and when someone at last
located him in New Orleans, some seven months had passed.
They found him in a frat house living under a false name,
deeply in debt, remorseful, and holding himself to blame.
He'd sold his car, hocked all his books, and had nowhere to turn,
and all the grand illusions of the fortune he would earn
had been shipwrecked upon the reef of grim reality.
Embarrassed and ashamed, he yearned to see his family.
My parents were elated and relieved, to say the least,
for every day that Herb was gone their worry had increased.
And now they couldn't wait to have their son back home again.
They hadn't been so happy since I can't remember when.
My father wired Herb a large sum to pay off all his debts.
It was a sacrifice for one paid what a teacher gets.
He also sent Herb money for his lengthy train-trip home.
No longer was Dad's main concern, "What led my son to roam?"
It was three days till Christmas Eve, when Herb walked through the door.
I'd never seen my mom and dad rejoice like that before.
My father never asked Herb to explain why he had left,
or indicated how much he and Mother were bereft
by his departure, or blamed him for their anxiety.
They simply celebrated his homecoming gratefully,
and I remember feeling some resentment of the fact
there was no mention of the pain he'd caused them by his act.
But I was glad to have my older brother home again,
and we became much closer after both of us were men.
The prodigal was home again, and I, the younger son,
observe that in the parable it was the older one
who stayed at home, and did his work, and was obedient.
The younger son did not return till all he had was spent.
He'd squandered his inheritance and wallowed with the pigs.
How very like the plight of Herb, alias J. R. Diggs.
I learned so much about myself from Jesus' parable.
I also learned about God's love, "forever flowing full."
I saw my father's aching heart reach out in selfless love
and welcome home his wayward son, as God has done above.
I understand how God relates to those who stick around,
and why there is such joy in heaven, when the lost is found.
Gethsemane47
I gaze across the ages to
a garden of the past,
where shadows of Gethsemane
their spectral spell now cast,
and through the window of my soul
into the darkness stare,
until the starry sky reveals
the ghostly figures there.
As fantasy takes form and shape
the scene becomes more clear.
It is the Master's face I see,
and those of others near.
I watch him kneeling, deep in prayer,
close by three sleeping friends.
How could they all forsake the one
on whom their life depends?
His sweat appears like drops of blood --
the Passion has begun!
"Remove this bitter cup," he prays,
"but let thy will be done."
I hear one call him "Master," then
betray him with a kiss.
Did ever friend betray a friend
in such a way as this?
Another who has called him "Lord,"
and boldly said "I can!"
Will soon deny him with a curse:
"I do not know the man!"
I look with shame upon the twelve;
they fail to meet the test.
I know that I for one would not
forsake him like the rest.
No traitor nor betrayer I,
nor one who'd flee his call.
Could I but speak, could they but hear,
I'd castigate them all!
Within the olive shadows yet
one face remains obscure.
I strain to catch a closer look.
It must be John, for sure.
But he whom Jesus loved the most
is running fast away!
Not even John (if it be John)
is brave enough to stay.
To verify my guess I hold
my dream-made lantern high,
And phantom flame on fleeing form
reveals that it is I!
One In Christ48
The love of Christ transcends all gaps
of race, or class, or clan.
If church folk cannot demonstrate
the love of Christ, who can?
The hurting world must see and hear
the Christian gospel still.
If church folk will not share the news
of Jesus' love, who will?
enjoys the times he spends the night with us.
Because he loves the bedtime games we play,
he always goes to bed without a fuss.
Indeed, he bounces up the stairs with joy,
anticipating a "Good night" routine
well calculated to delight a boy
who knows his lines in this well-practiced scene.
So when we've finished all the games once more,
I say, "I think it's time to go to sleep."
And then I make a move toward the door.
But Gray, who knows just what to say to keep
me there, reminds me that I haven't yet
told him a story. "What about?" I ask.
He knows just what reply will always get
me to remain: " 'bout Jesus!" That's a task
he knows I can't refuse. And so I smile
and take my seat again upon his bed.
Then, after I have thought a little while,
about the many things that I have said,
in all the stories I've already told
about the love of Jesus for us all,
I try to talk in words a six-year-old
will understand and later on recall.
One night, when I had told how Jesus had
raised Lazarus, his good friend, from the dead,
I thought, "How can I help this little lad
to deal with such a concept in his head?"
The two of us were soon deeply engrossed
in theological discussion. Gray
was listening intently, and was most
intrigued by everything I had to say
about how even though we cannot see
the Christ, we still can love him as a Friend,
unseen, but real. It is a mystery
a six-year-old would hardly comprehend,
one might have thought. "Gray, can you understand?"
He nodded, as I went on to explain.
"He's always here in spirit, and his hand
is reaching out to heal when we're in pain.
Wherever you may go, you can be glad
he'll be there when you need him. And if you
should ever do something you know is bad,
he will forgive you, if you ask him to,
because he loves you, Gray, and what is more
he'll be your Friend forever! Even when
you die, you can be absolutely sure
that you will be with him in heaven." Then,
I asked Gray what he thought of what I'd said,
as I stood up to go turn out the light.
My grandson, who was lying in the bed,
was wiggling with furious delight!
No wonder Jesus wants us all to turn
and be like little children in our praise.
For what we lukewarm Christians need to learn
is childlike trust and joy in Christ -- like Gray's!
Prodigal Parallel46
My brother Herb was seventeen, when he one day in May
got up at dawn, loaded his car, and quietly drove away.
He left a note to tell our parents not to worry, for
he'd make a fortune and not be a burden any more.
Before that morning I had never seen my father cry.
The news hit both my parents like a ton of bricks, and I,
a twelve-year-old, did not know what to think, or say, or do,
for why my brother would run off like that nobody knew.
My brother's disappearance was reported right away.
Police were searching everywhere throughout the U. S. A.
My father blamed himself, because he felt that he had failed.
It was a mystery in view of all that it entailed,
for as an intellectual my brother had few peers.
He'd sparkled at Johns Hopkins University three years,
where he was one of the best students they had ever seen.
He would have graduated at the age of just eighteen.
He might have been too smart for his own good, and maybe bored.
There was a fascinating world out there to be explored.
Herb had been difficult to raise, my parents often said;
no punishment or force could drive a notion from his head.
He scoffed at unexamined rules and hated to be bossed.
In his rebelliousness he sometimes failed to count the cost.
I, on the other hand, they said, was more obedient.
I almost never had to suffer any punishment.
My brother thought that I received more love from them than he,
but they'd spent far more raising Herb than they had spent on me.
They bought him a used car to drive to Hopkins every day,
and that's the vehicle he used to make his getaway.
He'd told no one at all his plans, and when someone at last
located him in New Orleans, some seven months had passed.
They found him in a frat house living under a false name,
deeply in debt, remorseful, and holding himself to blame.
He'd sold his car, hocked all his books, and had nowhere to turn,
and all the grand illusions of the fortune he would earn
had been shipwrecked upon the reef of grim reality.
Embarrassed and ashamed, he yearned to see his family.
My parents were elated and relieved, to say the least,
for every day that Herb was gone their worry had increased.
And now they couldn't wait to have their son back home again.
They hadn't been so happy since I can't remember when.
My father wired Herb a large sum to pay off all his debts.
It was a sacrifice for one paid what a teacher gets.
He also sent Herb money for his lengthy train-trip home.
No longer was Dad's main concern, "What led my son to roam?"
It was three days till Christmas Eve, when Herb walked through the door.
I'd never seen my mom and dad rejoice like that before.
My father never asked Herb to explain why he had left,
or indicated how much he and Mother were bereft
by his departure, or blamed him for their anxiety.
They simply celebrated his homecoming gratefully,
and I remember feeling some resentment of the fact
there was no mention of the pain he'd caused them by his act.
But I was glad to have my older brother home again,
and we became much closer after both of us were men.
The prodigal was home again, and I, the younger son,
observe that in the parable it was the older one
who stayed at home, and did his work, and was obedient.
The younger son did not return till all he had was spent.
He'd squandered his inheritance and wallowed with the pigs.
How very like the plight of Herb, alias J. R. Diggs.
I learned so much about myself from Jesus' parable.
I also learned about God's love, "forever flowing full."
I saw my father's aching heart reach out in selfless love
and welcome home his wayward son, as God has done above.
I understand how God relates to those who stick around,
and why there is such joy in heaven, when the lost is found.
Gethsemane47
I gaze across the ages to
a garden of the past,
where shadows of Gethsemane
their spectral spell now cast,
and through the window of my soul
into the darkness stare,
until the starry sky reveals
the ghostly figures there.
As fantasy takes form and shape
the scene becomes more clear.
It is the Master's face I see,
and those of others near.
I watch him kneeling, deep in prayer,
close by three sleeping friends.
How could they all forsake the one
on whom their life depends?
His sweat appears like drops of blood --
the Passion has begun!
"Remove this bitter cup," he prays,
"but let thy will be done."
I hear one call him "Master," then
betray him with a kiss.
Did ever friend betray a friend
in such a way as this?
Another who has called him "Lord,"
and boldly said "I can!"
Will soon deny him with a curse:
"I do not know the man!"
I look with shame upon the twelve;
they fail to meet the test.
I know that I for one would not
forsake him like the rest.
No traitor nor betrayer I,
nor one who'd flee his call.
Could I but speak, could they but hear,
I'd castigate them all!
Within the olive shadows yet
one face remains obscure.
I strain to catch a closer look.
It must be John, for sure.
But he whom Jesus loved the most
is running fast away!
Not even John (if it be John)
is brave enough to stay.
To verify my guess I hold
my dream-made lantern high,
And phantom flame on fleeing form
reveals that it is I!
One In Christ48
The love of Christ transcends all gaps
of race, or class, or clan.
If church folk cannot demonstrate
the love of Christ, who can?
The hurting world must see and hear
the Christian gospel still.
If church folk will not share the news
of Jesus' love, who will?
