I stood in the bus station awaiting my coach to London. A middle-aged man in a chequered flat cap and long, beige raincoat plonked his suitcases down next to mine and began talking to me about the impending journey. Underneath his raincoat was a smart tweed jacket and trousers that had crisp, vertical folds running down the middle; looking so sharp, that I’m sure one could use them as a guillotine blade.
He had a posh, southern accent, reminiscent of somebody who has spent their weekends dining with the Queen. His friendly, jolly manner made me warm to him and we chatted happily for several minutes.
Two toddlers were running around the waiting area while their parents sat together on the metal benches.
All of a sudden, the man glared at the tots and grimaced. Eyes that once displayed joviality, narrowed like they were peering through blurred binoculars. His once mellow tone changed to a gravely, fearful voice as he leant towards my ear and whispered,
“I’m going to wait and see where those children sit and then choose a seat as far away from them as possible. I hate bl***y kids!”
“You were one once.” I mused.
“That’s why I hate them.” He retorted. “I prefer dogs.”
He is not alone. Many people would indeed prefer to be in the company of a canine rather than a child, but I wondered what triggered this irrational fear in such a distinguished English gentleman. Were his school years plagued with bullies? Did he come from a large, boisterous family where there were not enough rooms to retreat to his own space?
Observing his guilty glance towards the ceiling, encouraged me to assume a different theory.
He had been the tormentor. The annoying little brother, the stroppy older sibling or the irritating infant whose bad behaviour tested the nerves of every adult who crossed his path.
Yes, no doubt he was remembering what he had been like and maybe up till now, he felt he hadn’t suffered full retribution for his past felonies.
This was the time, he pondered, that the gates will be swung wide open, and a torrent of torture will pour down on him in the way of these two children, who will turn into little imps as soon as he sits down near them.
I watched the youngest child fling a Jelly Tots packet to the floor and push his sister out of the way so that he could be next to his mother. He then extended his forefinger and shoved it so far up his tiny nose that I’m sure I spotted the fingernail protruding out of his left eye.
Umm… maybe this man’s fears were justified. But people, no matter how undesirable they may seem while in their juvenile years, can reform beautifully.
My travelling companion may well have been a tiny terror, but hadn’t he resisted the urge to pull my hair, stick chewing gum under the seats, cough in my face and wipe his runny nose across the length of his tweed jacket? He possessed a handkerchief which he used, he possessed good manners which he used also.
People change and those who appear to not look like they will ever reform, have the potential to change just as much.
No matter what negative opinions you may have towards the youngest people of our planet, God loves them immensely and sees the end from the beginning. He doesn’t just see the dross but the beauty lying beneath it.
Although this book is not about what God thinks about children in its entirety, they are the influence and inspiration behind it. Most of the accounts are true stories or based on real life events that have occurred, all of which involve children. It fascinates me how often God uses these precious little ones to speak to our hearts, even if some of them aren’t so small anymore. So, whether you are a parent of a small child, a parent whose kids are now grown up, childless, or not yet an adult yourself, I would like to invite you to sit back and enjoy the tales that have been born out of experiences with these wonderful beings, who although not yet fully developed in stature and brain, are very significant to God, because he cherishes them dearly.
