The other day my youngest son cut his finger. It was a small cut. To be honest, it was a very tiny cut that you could only see if you looked as close as you possibly could without actually touching his finger to your eyeball. But, still, it was a cut. He washed it off, put a bandage on, and walked around with his hand high in the air, making sure everyone saw the cut and expressed appropriate sympathy.
Fifteen minutes later the bandage was in the trash, he was back to playing, and didn’t mention it again.
Until two days later.
Two days later he came running into my room at an hour that I don’t usually see and jumped on my bed. Here is what followed:
Son: Guess what, Mom?
Me: (One eye open) Huh?
Son: My cut is all better! It disappeared!
Me: (Trying to remember what cut he is talking about) Great.
Son: Yeah, but you know what happened? You know what happened?
In my grumpy, tired, all-knowing adult brain I thought: Yeah, I know what happened. You barely cut it in the first place, so obviously two days later it would be better.
But to my son I simply said: What happened?
Son: (Whispering in awe) Jesus healed, it Mama. Jesus made it all better.
Sufficiently chastised, I pulled my son close and hugged him, agreeing with him that Jesus made it better.
“And he said: ‘Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.’” Matthew 18:3
See you tomorrow!