By Laura Boggess

When I was small, I would run as fast as I could with arms outstretched, letting the wind collect under makeshift wings. I was an airplane, a bird, or a dragon, flying over vast kingdoms. When the moon peeked through the dark at night, these wings would take me from my bed up into the sky, through stardust and past fiery comets—the curtains of the heavens opening wide to receive me. And I would meet with God—fly straight into his arms and let him rock me to sleep in his great lap.

As I grew up, I learned the limits of our natural world. The world grew smaller, and God seemed light years away. I came to understand that faith is being certain of what we do not see,1 and my childhood nighttime meetings with an unseen God faded to a sweet memory. More and more, my knowledge increased and my faith grew; yet, more and more, I longed for that close communion of long ago.

A few years ago, I went walking with my two young sons on a snowy evening. I remember how they ran ahead, lost in the tumbling play that only brothers know, leaving me in a wake of laughter. I stood alone under that white sky and looked up. Was it true that I once flew through these same heavens; cheeks flushed and eyes pools of starlight?

When did I stop believing that with God all things are possible? Or, rather, when did my imagination become so small that I stopped expecting the seemingly impossible? When did my feet become so rooted to the crust of the earth that I let gravity weigh down my idea of who God is?

It could have been when I turned seven or eight years old. At least, that’s what Jean Piaget’s theory of cognitive development would suggest. He claimed that the preoperational stage of thinking, which spans approximately ages 2–7, is characterized by the development of symbolic thinking, memory and imagination—all of which allow engagement in rich make-believe play.

This thinking, based on intuition instead of logic, makes it difficult to grasp cause and effect, time, and comparison. Experts view this as a limitation, but my dictionary defines intuition as an insight into truth that is not perceived by the conscious mind. That sounds to me like the place where the Holy Spirit touches my consciousness—steering me this way or that. The world may view that as a limitation, but I wonder…

When our brains reach that stage when they are capable of logic, do the wonder structures in our brains have to shrink to make room? If so, how can we expand them again? How can we grown-ups, long past Piaget’s preoperational stage, recover the wild joy of wonder? How can I revisit that place where the Holy Spirit begins to touch my conscious and steer me again, offering his intuition and insight?

Jesus tells us in Matthew 18 that unless we become like little children we will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven, he said. What might that look like? How do I come to Jesus like a child?

One answer came that cold day in February—lifted with laughter on the snow.

Play.

But what would play look like in my grown-up world? In his book Play: How it Shapes the Brain, Opens the Imagination, and Invigorates the Soul, Dr. Stuart Brown says when we engage in true play, our sense of self-consciousness diminishes and we lose track of time. Play allows us to live fully in each moment.

I start to practice play, losing myself completely, standing at the window, watching a goldfinch peel a sunflower seed. Hours spent pulling weeds in the vegetable garden pass like seconds—the scent of the tomato plant leaves intoxicates. And when the sun shines on water, leaving a rosy trail behind her, I’m drawn into the passage of light through water.

Play reminds me how it feels to be a child—innocent, everything new. God is inviting me to play each time he points my heart to beauty.

That evening in the snow, my sons’ laughter echoing through the streets, I felt the internal prompting. I felt the invitation. Once again, I lifted my arms up to my sides—stretched out my wings. This fortyish mama let herself glide in circles, let the wind collect under makeshift wings.

And I flew. Straight into the arms of God.

                                                             *

Play looks different for each person. What simple, playful activities fit your personality and can help you connect with God more intimately, becoming like little children? 

Courtesy of Anchor; reused with permission. Photo by Lesley Show via Flickr.

Flor Cordoba

My four-year-old son, Ricardo, is “on the Lego trip.” Maybe it’s his age or the fact that he’s artistic and loves building things, but not a single day goes by that I don’t find him building something with his Lego. Sometimes I sit with him and build too. I am quite impressed with his cars, spaceships, and whatnot, so I put up with the fact that I have to go hunting around the house for tiny missing pieces almost every day.

One day he came running to show me a new spaceship he had built, and accidentally bumped it against a doorway. The hapless little spaceship was thrown into what seemed a thousand pieces that went everywhere—across the floor and under the table, chairs, couches, and every other hard-to-get-at place in the room.

Ricardo’s face registered total dismay. I tried to comfort him. “It’s okay. Now you can build another one and I’m sure it will be even better. Don’t get discouraged. Just pick up the pieces and build a new one.” But poor Ricardo was so downcast that he said he wasn’t going to try again. He slowly picked up the pieces and went to put them
away.

A few minutes later, he came bounding back with a brand-new spaceship. “You were right, Mom,” he said. “This is way better than the last one!”

I was so proud of my little boy, and it taught me a lesson. How many times have I worked to build a dream, only to have it fall to pieces! Picking up the pieces and starting over is often even harder than getting started the first time, but with the faith of a little child, all things—even better things—are possible.

By Tomoko Matsuoka

At a primary school, during their weekly class on morals, some first-grade students were asked to finish the story of the hard-working ant and the lazy grasshopper in the way they thought would be best.

Most of us know this story—one of Aesop’s fables—of how the Grasshopper wasted the summer months playing his fiddle while the Ant labored hard storing food for the winter. When cold finally came, the industrious Ant and his friends were all safely tucked away with all that they would need, while the Grasshopper was left to search for food and found himself dying of hunger.

The six-year-olds were asked to draw a picture of and rewrite the ending of the story in any way they would like, but it needed to involve the Grasshopper asking the Ant for help. About half of the first-graders took the general view that since the Grasshopper was undeserving, the Ant refused to help him. The other half changed the end to say that the Ant told the Grasshopper to learn his lesson, and then he gave the Grasshopper half of what he had.

Then a little boy stood up and gave this version of the tale: After the Grasshopper came to the Ant and begged for food, the Ant unhesitatingly gave all the food he had. Not half or most, but everything. The boy was not finished, however, and cheerfully continued, “The Ant didn’t have any food left, so he died. But then the Grasshopper was so sad that the Ant had died that he told everyone what the Ant had done to save his life. And the Grasshopper became a good Grasshopper.”

Two things came to mind when this story was related to me. First, it reminded me what giving meant to Jesus. He didn’t go halfway for us, and He didn’t say we were “undeserving,” but He gave His all so that we could learn to “be good.” It was only through His total sacrifice that we were able to receive the gift of eternal life. It was just the way the Ant died for the Grasshopper in the six-year-old’s retelling of the classic tale. And for us it should also not end there. In gratitude, we should follow His example and give our all to tell of the wonderful thing He did for us.

Second, I learned what it means to give your all. It is not true giving unless it hurts, but when you do truly give, it will be multiplied many times over.

D.B. Berg

It pays to be as a little child. In fact, Jesus said, “Unless you … become as little children, you will by no means enter the kingdom of Heaven” (Matthew 18:3) and, “Let the little children come to Me, and do not forbid them; for of such is the kingdom of God” (Mark 10:14). We’re to be like little children—loving, sweet, simple believers, in childlike faith believing and receiving all that the Lord has for us.

Children are samples of the citizenry of Heaven, like little angels dropped from the sky. They’re so fresh from Heaven that they understand prayer and other spiritual matters better than most adults. They talk to God and He talks to them. It’s that simple. They have no problem at all getting His ear with their pure, simple, childlike faith. It is given to children to be rich in faith. Faith just comes naturally to them. They have faith to believe anything God says, and with them nothing is impossible.

The problem with many grown-ups is that they know too much. They’ve been educated out of their childlike faith. But there are others of trusting childlike faith who are daily doing things that doubting intellectuals say can’t be done. So be like a little child, and anything wonderful can happen!

The surgeon sat beside the boy’s bed; the boy’s parents sat across from him.

“Tomorrow morning,” the surgeon began, “I’ll open up your heart. …”

“You’ll find Jesus there,” the boy interrupted.

The surgeon looked up, annoyed. “I’ll open up your heart as we begin the operation,” he continued, “to see how much damage has been done…”

“But when you open up my heart, you’ll find Jesus in there.”

The surgeon looked to the boy’s parents, who sat quietly. “When I see how much damage has been done, I’ll close your heart and chest back up, and I’ll plan what to do next.”

“But you’ll find Jesus in my heart. The Bible says He lives there. The hymns all say He lives there. You’ll find Him in my heart.”

The surgeon had had enough. “I’ll tell you what I’ll find in your heart. I’ll find damaged muscle, low blood supply, and weakened vessels. And I’ll find out if I can make you well.”

“You’ll find Jesus there too. He lives there.” The surgeon left.

After the surgery, the surgeon sat in his office, recording his notes. “Damaged aorta, damaged pulmonary vein, widespread muscle degeneration.

“No hope for transplant. No hope for cure. Therapy: painkillers and bed rest. Prognosis …” Here he paused, “… death within one year.”

He stopped the recorder, but there was more to be said.

“Why?” he asked aloud. “Why, God, did You do this? You’ve put this boy here. You’ve put him in this pain, and You’ve cursed him to an early death. Why?”

The Lord answered and said, “The boy, My lamb, was not meant for your flock for long, for he is a part of My flock, and will forever be. Here, in My flock, he will feel no pain, and he will be comforted as you cannot imagine. His parents will one day join him here, and they will know peace, and My flock will continue to grow.”

The surgeon’s tears were hot, but his anger was hotter. “You created that boy, and You created that heart. He’ll be dead in months. Why?”

The Lord answered, “The boy, My lamb, shall return to My flock, for he has done his duty: I did not put My lamb with your flock to lose him, but to retrieve another lost lamb.”

The surgeon wept.

Later, the surgeon sat beside the boy’s bed; the boy’s parents sat across from him.

The boy awoke and whispered, “Did you cut open my heart?”

“Yes,” said the surgeon.

“What did you find?” asked the boy.

“I found Jesus there,” said the surgeon.

 - Author Unknown

Jessica ­­­Roberts

I’ve worked with young children for years, and I never cease to be amazed at their hunger for life, joy of discovery, and perseverance. Yes, perseverance. That may come as a new thought, considering small children’s notoriously short attention spans. (Any mother who has tried to get her toddler to sit still long enough to finish a meal can tell you about that.) There are moments in every young child’s life, though, when the inborn urge for development drives the child to learn a new skill, such as picking up a small object with chubby little fingers, or crawling, or walking. These new skills require a huge amount of concentration and effort on the part of the child and a great deal of time compared to his or her short life up to that point. They also put physical demands on muscles that are just beginning to learn coordination and are barely strong enough to sustain the child’s weight.

When I recently moved to a new country, I went through a difficult time of adjustment. My friends and co-workers in my former situation had become like family. It hurt to leave them, and I especially missed teaching and helping to care for their kids. I tried my hand at new aspects of our volunteer work, but felt I wasn’t good at any of them. At one point, for example, I channeled my energy into a toy-and-book drive for needy children, but when it was slow taking off, I grew discouraged and felt like giving up.

One day I was caring for a co-worker’s baby, Rafael. For as long as I had known him, Rafael had been trying to crawl. He would start by pushing himself up on shaky arms and eventually get up on all fours, but then he would get stuck. This went on for weeks. He would push himself up and rock back and forth on his pudgy hands and knees, but not make any forward progress. If a toy was just out of his reach, no matter how much he rocked on all fours or wiggled on his belly, he wouldn’t get any closer. He sometimes managed to scoot himself backwards, but that only moved him further from his goal. This day, after trying his hardest, he looked at me with “Pick me up!” written in frustration on his little features.

I could sympathize, as I felt just as frustrated in my new situation. I knew, though, that all that struggling was strengthening his muscles and teaching him about his body. So I picked him up and cuddled and encouraged him a bit, but then put him back on the floor to try again. He would have to learn to crawl on his own; I couldn’t do it for him. Eventually he would grow stronger and get the hang of it.

Suddenly I realized how much like Rafael I was. I’d been struggling, trying to learn new jobs, a new language, and about a new culture, and my natural reaction had been to look up to Jesus and say “Pick me up! Save me from this!” But He knows that this time of learning, difficult as it may be, will make me stronger. So even though His love is always there to cheer me on, I have to do the work. I have to persevere.

That gave me a new outlook on my situation. If Rafael can keep it up, then I will too! And when I grow weary of trying or get frustrated from seemingly futile effort, I’ll go to Jesus for love, encouragement, and the strength to keep learning the lessons life brings my way.

Rafael is now happily crawling and starting to pull himself up to stand. I’m also taking baby steps in learning new skills and broadening my horizons. I know we’ll both be up and running before long, if we just keep trying.

She must have been six years old, this beautiful brown-haired, freckled-faced image of innocence. Her mom had on a pair of tan shorts and a light blue knit shirt, with sneakers. She looked like a mom.

It was pouring outside—the kind of rain that gushes over the tops of rain gutters, so much in a hurry to hit the earth it has no time to flow down the spout. Drains in the nearby parking lot were filled to capacity or blocked. Huge puddles formed lakes around parked cars. We all stood there under the awning or just inside the door of the store. We waited—some patiently, others aggravated because nature messed up their hurried day.

I am always mesmerized by rainfall. I get lost in the sound and sight of the heavens washing away the dirt and dust of the world. Memories of running and splashing so carefree as a child come pouring in as a welcome reprieve from the worries of my day.

Her voice was so sweet as it broke the hypnotic trance we were all caught in. “Mom, let’s run through the rain,” she said.

“What?” Mom asked.

“Let’s run through the rain!” she repeated.

“No, honey. We’ll wait until it slows down a bit,” Mom replied.

This young child waited about another minute and repeated her statement. “Mom, let’s run through the rain.”

“We’ll get soaked if we do,” Mom said.

“No, we won’t, Mom. That’s not what you said this morning,” the young girl said as she tugged at her mom’s arm.

“This morning? When did I say we could run through the rain and not get wet?”

“Don’t you remember? When you were talking to Daddy about his cancer, you said, ‘If God can get us through this, He can get us through anything!’”

The entire crowd became dead silent. You couldn’t hear anything but the rain. We all stood quietly. No one came or left in the next few minutes. Mom paused and thought for a moment about what she would say.

Now some would laugh it off and scold the child for being silly. Some might even ignore what was said. But this was a moment of affirmation in a young child’s life. A time when innocent trust can be nurtured so that it will bloom into faith.

“Honey, you are absolutely right. Let’s run through the rain. If God lets us get wet, well, maybe we just needed washing,” Mom said.

Then off they ran. We all stood watching, smiling and laughing as they darted past the cars and through the puddles. They held their shopping bags over their heads just in case. They got soaked. But they were followed by a few believers who screamed and laughed like children all the way to their cars, perhaps inspired by their faith and trust.

I want to believe that somewhere down the road in life, that mom will find herself reflecting back on moments they spent together, captured like pictures in the scrapbook of her cherished memories—the two of them running through the rain, believing that God would get them through.

And yes, I ran too. I got wet. I needed washing.

—Author unknown

By Tomoko Matsuoka

I wouldn’t have used this color in the wildest color scheme-a garish yellow that takes on a greenish tint when the light strikes it just right. But here it is, in sharp contrast to the muted red cover of my diary, a child’s shiny yellow rose sticker. Of all of the gifts I have ever received, I have treasured this one more than most.

Thinking back, I can’t remember what my little sister had said that had gotten me in such a tizzy. All I remember is that she had been complaining, and I had lectured her severely. I hadn’t gone so far as enumerating every woe that the least fortunate child in the world might be experiencing at that very moment, but I had come close. After demanding an apology, I turned back to my book.

A few quiet moments had passed when I heard rustling. I refused to look up. I wanted my little sister to feel the full effect of my righteous exasperation. Let her stew, I thought.

The rustling continued. I willed myself to stay put, but I couldn’t help wondering what was absorbing her so completely. Another few moments passed, and then the patter of footsteps came up behind me. They stopped. Silence.

I refused to look up from my book, but from the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of her hand pushing an envelope onto the desk next to me. She turned and ran from the room.

Curious, I flipped open the envelope. Something impossibly yellow tumbled onto my lap. It was a rose sticker. I flipped it over, and there in a five-year-old’s handwriting were the words, “I’m sorry. I love you.”

In a preschooler’s barter economy, stickers are precious. And this was no ordinary sticker. Considering that to a child’s way of thinking, bigger is better, the brighter the better, and shiny is best of all, this big shiny rose sticker that had fallen into my lap had undoubtedly been the prize of her collection.

I sat stunned for a moment at her boundless ability to love me despite my ornery self-centeredness. I found her, hugged her, and told her I was sorry.

By Angela Koltes

On a dreary and overcast winter day, I set out with a few friends to spend the afternoon at the nearby school for the blind. It was one of those “any old Sundays” where I was exhausted from the week’s busy schedule and longed for the comfort of my warm bed and the welcoming idea of lounging at home.

I had no desire to go outside; after all, almost everyone would be spending time on themselves and taking the day off. But because we had promised to go by the school to give the children a little cheer and fun on a lonely Sunday afternoon, we were obligated to go.

On weekends, most of the families of students came to pick up their children, as the blind children boarded at the school during the week. So there were few kids this Sunday, yet each one of them showed their delight at our coming, welcoming us with joyful expressions.

We didn’t have much of a plan, but we brought a guitar, shakers, and bongos, hoping to bring some happiness into their seemingly colorless worlds. The children crowded around us, listening to the music and trying to understand where we came from and what we looked like. Some of them had their own instruments, as most of them are musically talented, and they played along, enthusiastically showing us what they knew.

In the midst of all the noise and activity I noticed one little short-haired girl sitting shyly away from the other children. I wondered who her parents were and why they hadn’t come to visit such a beautiful little girl. I felt angry, wondering how this child could deserve to be deprived of her sight and made to live as handicapped.

While watching her, the first thing that captured me was her bright and radiant smile. “How could this little blind girl, in her sad condition, be so happy?” I wondered to myself. The teacher, who followed my gaze, began to tell us her story. Seda was seven years old and had been through a brain operation two years before. “I could see the trees, the birds, the doctor’s face, everything.” She added, listening to her teacher, “But after I woke up, I couldn’t see anything anymore.”

It was as if a rock fell from a high ledge and landed at the bottom of my heart! I could only continue to watch the little girl in silence.

“But I am so happy!” she exclaimed, giggling and playing with her hands. “Why are you happy, Seda?” her teacher asked for us. “Well,” she began softly, “Even though I cannot see on this earth anymore, I will be able to see again in heaven—and I am waiting and looking forward to that day.”

My eyes filled with tears, and I knew by looking around that my friends shared the same feeling. The rest of the afternoon Seda stuck near me. She grabbed my hand and led me around the school. She sat on my lap and talked about all the food she liked to eat, each vegetable and fruit she enjoyed and why. She found such delight in the tastes and sounds around her, it was as if she had forgotten she could not use her sense of sight.

When I drove home that evening, Seda’s face stuck in my mind. What did this girl see in her black world that made her so happy? Later, when I would feel the strain of a difficult workday, whatever I might be going through at the moment, when I thought of Seda, I knew I couldn't complain.

Sometimes the dark days we are forced to pass through seem unbearable and we see no shining rays of dawn. We struggle each day while despising what we see around us. Yet I know if I can only strive to think as that little angel did, whose sight had been taken from her, and look toward heaven as she did, I can praise for each day I have been given on this earth.

Whenever I am tempted to curse the darkness and criticize what I see around me, that little girl’s smile comes to mind. I think of her faith and I think of the eyes that were given to her to see the daylight of tomorrow, and I know if she can, I surely can too.

By Victoria Olivetta

After four years and a 44-hour bus ride, I was finally visiting my daughter and son-in-law and seeing my young granddaughter, Giovanna, for the first time. She had my heart instantly—so cute, so smart, so active. Other grandparents will understand if I say that my granddaughter is the most adorable, wonderful girl in the world!

I spent as much time as I could with her, trying to get to know and understand her. It was amazing to see how much Giovanna looked and acted like her mother had at the same age, but at the same time she very definitely had her own unique personality and ways.

I put great emphasis on my children’s education and started early, and my daughter and son-in-law have enthusiastically started doing the same with Giovanna. At 20 months Giovanna can already read a few words, counts to 20, knows the basic colors, is starting to learn geometric shapes, and has memorized a number of simplified Bible verses. She is very bright, but still exudes the innocence of a toddler.

One day she was running around, playing, and being a little rowdy. In a flash she went from doing her famous “A-frame” exercise on the bed (head and feet firmly planted on the mattress, bottom up, arms crossing the A) to landing on the floor with a thud. She looked surprised, but thankfully wasn’t seriously hurt. She sat there for a moment with an expression that was a mix of shock, disbelief, and embarrassment.

After she recovered and stood up, I offered to pray for her because I was sure that such an unexpected fall must have been at least a little painful. As soon as I finished the prayer, Giovanna opened her big brown eyes, and there it was—that unmistakable sparkle of playfulness. She unfolded her hands and was ready to get back to the important affairs of her young life: more jumping and playing.

A few days later her father needed to travel to another city and be gone for a couple of days, and she missed him. He has made a habit of spending one-on-one time with her at the same time each day, whenever possible, and that was when she missed him most while he was away. One day my daughter told Giovanna that instead of being upset, she should pray for her daddy, and they prayed together. Immediately her expression changed from one of worry and loss to one of peace and trust; she was her happy, playful self again.

Her simple faith made me reevaluate my own. It’s one thing to pray and trust that God will answer (that’s why we pray in the first place, because we expect some kind of answer), but it’s often something else to pray and immediately stop worrying about the situation because we truly believe the answer is already on the way. Giovanna really believed, so she could happily get on with life.

Childlike Faith 
By D.B. Berg

It pays to be as a little child. In fact, Jesus said, “Unless you … become as little children, you will by no means enter the kingdom of Heaven” (Matthew 18:3) and, “Let the little children come to Me, and do not forbid them; for of such is the kingdom of God” (Mark 10:14). We’re to be like little children—loving, sweet, simple believers, in childlike faith believing and receiving all that God has for us.

Children are samples of the citizenry of Heaven, like little angels dropped from the sky. They’re so fresh from Heaven that they understand prayer and other spiritual matters better than most adults. They talk to God and He talks to them. It’s that simple.

The problem with many grown-ups is that they know too much. They’ve been educated out of their childlike faith. But there are others of trusting childlike faith who are daily doing things that doubting intellectuals say can’t be done. So be like a little child, and anything wonderful can happen!