Passing by the stairs at the front of my house this afternoon, I recoiled in horror to see my five-year-old son's name written in black ink, in his own hand, on woodwork near the bottom step.
The woodwork was painted about six months ago at no small cost with an expensive enamel based paint. My son used a ball-point pen to autograph it, engrave it really, and the writing won't easily be removed anytime soon.
As I stood there, disappointed by his foolish choice and debating whether and how to discipline him for it, I remembered something sad. Suddenly, that little bit of graffiti took on a whole new meaning and I chastised myself for even thinking about punishing my boy.
See, a family in our community lost their little girl yesterday to a rare childhood disease. She was only two years old and the youngest of three.
What that family wouldn't give to have their daughter another three years -- time enough to scrawl her own name where it doesn't belong! Time enough to cherish the fleeting nature of her childhood and to relish with great anticipation the future laid out before her. Time enough to repaint woodwork once she was grown. . .
Sobered once again by how much God has given me -- our children are never of our own making, I am sure of it -- I decided to cherish my son's name and his foolish choice.
After all, at least I have a child to attach to the mischief. And that makes the mischief priceless.
I'm in no hurry to sand and paint over my boy's penmanship practice. He's only five for a little while longer and it will do me good to be reminded of this as I go up and down the stairs every day.
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