I DREAMED I WAS A KID AGAIN
Have you ever thought you would like to go back into time? To the “good old days”–a time when you didn’t have a care in this world. No bills to pay; no taxes due, no time schedule to keep. Someone said, “The only thing good about the good old days is your bad memory!”
What age would you choose? 21? 16? 9? 4? How old would you be if you could choose? Each of us would have a different reason for going back to a certain age.
How about 9 years old, when I preached my first sermon? The summer when I was 13 (talk about Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn) I can still smell the warm countryside and see the pond we swam in. At 16, I got my first car and at 17, I took my first evangelist trip alone. When I was 25 I met and married Arlis, HALLELUJAH!; became a daddy at 30, and at 32 did my first solo flight in an airplane.
So, you see I have special memories just like you. But, have you noticed that no one wants to be real old–or real young? Do you know why? Because somehow we have the idea that they’re not real people. After all, a real old person seems to be in their own world of memories and knickknack’s, and babies don’t know anything anyway.
Did you know our spirits are ageless, and it’s the outward body that changes? You’re the same person now as you were before you got that first wrinkle or grey hair. Only your body changes.
Of course we can’t go back, but we can learn as we grow older to love and understand those that are young and old.
Stop thinking just because a person is under 3 feet tall that they don’t really understand anything, so we can shove them in a back room called a nursery and watch them play with blocks. You wouldn’t do that to the same person if they were 2 feet higher.
Put yourself in their shoes: You come in the front door of the church and no one speaks to you. Oh, they shake hands with Mom and Dad; even give them a bulletin and take them to a real class with a real teacher, and the only reason is, they’re just taller!
They take you to the nursery. While you’re waiting for someone to come and watch you, you hear the arguments and excuses outside the door. “Oh no Pastor. I’m not called to children–I want a real ministry” or “I’ve been with kids all week; I come to church to get a break” or “You aren’t going to catch me baby-sitting–I’m going out to hear the Word.”
By now you’ve got the point–”I guess I’m not important enough to rate any special attention.” You wish you could speak up, but you can’t talk too well yet. You would probably walk to another church, but your diaper bag is too big to carry.
Finally, some dear saint comes in. She’s been there 16 times in the last month because she’s faithful, and someone’s got to do it. As they close the door, you hear the crowd shouting, “Amen!” as the preacher talks about the harvest field that’s out there. Of course, you know by now that they would have to be at least 3 feet tall before they could be harvested.
You sit down among the scuffed toys and glance up at the plaque on the wall and it says (if you could read), “AS MUCH AS YOU HAVE DONE IT UNTO ONE OF THESE LITTLE CHILDREN YOU HAVE DONE IT UNTO ME.”
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