3pm I hear kid fingers fumbling with the front door, and I nearly trip over myself reaching for the handle before the little guy on the other side rings the doorbell twenty times, announcing his red haired, freckle-faced presence, nearly waking the sleeping baby, and making me nuts because I missed my last thirty minutes of divine silence.
I open door, whisper, “Hey kiddo. Home from school?” He nods. “Want to play with Micah?” He nods, reddish curls blowing in the wind that rattles our flimsy black metal porch railing. “Ok, you can go down in the basement. Take off you shoes and be quiet—the baby’s sleeping.”
“I know. I know. I remember,” he says, pulling off his Pumas as Micah calls up the basement steps, “Is that Ben? He can come play Star Wars with me. Come on, Ben!”
And so begins another afternoon, the neighborhood kids coming home to no
one . . . come home to us, looking for a friend, a pat on the head, a “how was your day, kiddo?” They tell me our house is “heaven” because we don’t “scream at each other,” and we have “family time.” Their words make me sad and thankful and scared—sad for the pain of a five year old neighbor boy (and others), thankful for the gift of three boys, scared because I too hurt my boys with wild words.
Boy words drift up as I stand at kitchen sink, sudsing lunch dishes.
“Ben, are you thankful I let you play with Darth Vader? If you’re not, you’re not gracious.”
I smile. The blunt words of a five year old, tact not yet learned.
“Ben, do you want to be like Dietrich Bonhoeffer or Satan?”
What? Holding yellow plate with painted blue flowers, suds floating down into water. I pause.
“Cuse Dietrich Bonhoeffer died for Jesus. Do you know ‘bout Jesus?”
“Yeah. I know. I know.”
“You know he died for you?” pressing . . . pressing. (I wonder where he gets that, the pressing?) I smile.
“Duh! I know! I saw a movie ‘bout it. He died and went up in the air,” tone harsh, saying “get off my back,” without actually saying it, and the kid’s only five. Only five.
“Duh! I know! I saw a movie ‘bout it. He died and went up in the air,” tone harsh, saying “get off my back,” without actually saying it, and the kid’s only five. Only five.
Micah won’t let up: “Did it make you cry? When Jesus died? Did it?”
Silence.
Voice of red haired, freckle-faced five year old Ben, “Are you gonna let me play with your Star Wars legos or what?”
Deflection. Avoidance. My soul swells—with joy that my Micah sees, with sorrow that Ben does not . . . then I think . . .
Does it make me cry? That Jesus died? . . . .
Does it make me cry?
