My son’s high-pitchedquery broke into my drifting thoughts as I tidied the bathroom. Matthew, 5, sat still in the warm bath, his shiny, bald head slightly bowed.
“Mommy, do you know the first question I am going to ask God when
I get to heaven?”
Startled, I glanced at my little boy with his central line tubing dangling from his gaunt chest. “No, Mattie,
I don’t know,” I replied.
“I am going to ask Him why I got cancer.”
Less than two minutes passed, and he piped up again. “I know, Mommy.
I know why God gave me cancer. He wanted to see how much I would love Him and how much I would love other people even though I have cancer.”
After retirement, I began volunteering once a week in a kindergarten class at Georgetown East Elementary School. One day the teacher was explaining the concept of the number 100. One of the exercises was for the children to draw a picture of what they would look like when they were 100 and then answer the question: “When I am 100, I will look ___.” Evan thought about it awhile and then asked, “How do you spell ‘crinkly’?” Jazmin looked up at me and said, “When I’m 100, I will look beautiful.”
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