Faith Like A Child

I've heard it used in church. I have been admonished to have childlike faith. I bobbed my head and sang along with Jars of Clay as they jammed to their song. I knew how to utilize the phrase in conversation correctly. But until a few years ago, the phrase was essentially meaningless to me.

Then I had children of my own. I saw as they grew in those first tender years, the complete faith and trust that they had in Mommy and Daddy to take care of them, tend to their needs, and to only want good for them. I witnessed in awe as they hit preschool age, the sureness that Mommy and Daddy could fix 'it' and the certainty in their eyes that we would be there to catch them when they jumped.

My heart has ached with wonder as I listen to Thomas and Sarah Grace and their frequent answers to the swerve balls that get thrown in their direction. 'It's okay, Jesus still will love us', or 'We can just pray and it will be okay', or 'That's just the way God wanted it!'. My heart knows that that the simplicity of their words mirrors their absolute faith, but my mind tends to be jaded by the tragedies in life I have been witness to.

One of those very tragedies came up this morning. Thomas and I were doing his math work when I realized for the first time today that it is the anniversary of such a heart breaking day in our nation's history. I was taken by surprise when my eyes watered, but I managed to swallow it back, not wanting to get into that discussion at the moment. I needed to organize my thoughts and be ready to answer questions that were bound to be asked of me.

A couple of hours later, I had the opportunity to talk to Thomas one on one. As we drove down the road, a song of courage and hope that was written in the aftermath of 9/11 came on the radio. I told Thomas I wanted him to listen closely to the music and the words. As the song ended, he looked at me with questions in his eyes. I started telling him about the planes, the towers, the Pentagon, the attempt on the White House, the sad hatefulness of the whole thing, and of the bravery of the men and women who were there. The ones who lived, the ones who died, and the ones who are still surviving.

Tears rolled down my cheeks and my voice broke several times. I had to pull over to finish the conversation. My son sat their and held my hand as I told him of that dreadful day. And when I was out of words, he simply said, 'Let's pray, Mommy, that those bad guys will get to learn about Jesus.'