was once a little boy and every day he got up and he would go
to school...he would sit at his desk and listen to what the teacher
was saying, he would then bow his head and he would write the homework
assignment down and do as much of it in class as he could. He would
then go to lunch with the other kids but he was different because
he wasn't allowed to sit with the other kids. They didn't want him
at their table. In fact, most of the time, the little boy thought
they didn't want him at their school at all. He was shy, he was
different, he wasn't "right" and his intelligence and
straight A average made him the teacher's pet and therefore the
when he would go home, nothing much was different because he wasn't
wanted at home either. He wasn't the son that his father had always
prayed for, had always wanted and his father told him so every day,
every night he came home. Sometimes he used his whip to reinforce
his message that the little boy was nothing but a punishment from
God and that nothing he ever did or was going to do would ever be
worth anything. The little boy would try to make his father proud,
by showing him his straight As but the father would get angry that
the boy was wasting his time on "girlish" things, like
grades and caring about what the teachers thought of him and he
would lash out at the boy again, and again and again until the little
boy was lying on the ground with bruises and welts and painful scars
on his back and his hands.
He wasn't wanted
He wasn't wanted at school.
But he was
wanted. He was wanted by the little, dark haired, dark eyed sister
that hid behind the couches when his father was angry. He was wanted
by her. She thought he had hung the moon, and every night, after
their father tired of beating the spirit out of his son, the sister,
who was two years younger than the boy, would bring a washcloth
up to him and gently touch his welts and wipe the blood away. She
would sing to him in quiet tones and would hug him and then, after
the cuts had been washed and the tears in the boy's eyes had finally
fallen, she would lay down beside him on the floor, and wrap her
arms around his waist. It was then..it was always then that the
little boy would realize that the wetness on his shirt wasn't coming
just from his tears but from her tears too. And so they would lay
there, holding each other close and they would cry together for
the innocence that was being beaten out of them both.
In the light
of day, after the tears dried and the bruises healed, the boy and
the girl never spoke of it. Often times the little boy wanted to
thank his sister for all that she gave to him, for all that she
did for him, but he could never find the words...and he didn't feel
worthy to talk to her in daylight because he knew she had to have
come directly from heaven, and how was one supposed to talk to an
angel, who came in the formation of a little girl? So the words
"thank you" were never spoken.
But on the first
night that their daddy went to the little girl's room to hurt her
instead of the boy, the boy was there, hitting his father on the
face and on the back, knowing the punishment that he would receive
for doing so. He was right. The plan worked. The father became so
angry that he hit the boy and hit him again and again and he used
his belt this time because his whip hadn't been brought in. The
boy was thrown across the room and his head hit the wall. The father's
anger at having been attacked by his own son wouldn't fade, it wouldn't
go away, and so he kept hitting the boy, ignoring the little girl's
screams for him to stop...stop...stop...
The little boy
got scared when the light when out and he was surrounded momentarily
by blackness. Nothing was around him, until suddenly he saw a beautiful,
bright light and a man was standing there. He had black hair and
a beard and he was smiling. He wore a white robe and sandals were
on his feet. The man walked closer to the boy until finally, he
stopped. The man and the boy looked at each other for a long moment
before finally the man stretched out his hand to the boy. Holes
were in the man's hands.
the man said. "I know you're hurting now. I know what that
whip feels like. No more, my child. No more. Come with me. Come
The boy didn't
understand. "You - but you're Jesus."
want ME to come with you? Me?"
"Yes, little one. Yes. I love you, just like your sister does."
The boy's eyes
filled with tears and he looked over his shoulder as if he could
see his sister, the lovely young girl he loved, the angel from the
place Jesus now wanted to take him.
happen to her? I can't leave her."
be okay. She has a long life ahead of her, a happy life. She won't
ever experience what you did because you stopped it. She is going
to live with a family who loves her."
wants you to be happy, too. Come with me home now."
The boy looked
beyond Jesus into the bright light from which this loving man had
come. "To heaven? I don't belong."
child." Tears filled Jesus's eyes and He reached over and hugged
the boy. The boy had never felt such warmth and peace fill him as
he did then. He did not want to let Jesus go. Jesus framed the boy's
face and smiled through the tears. "My child, it was for you
heaven was made." And with that, He took the boy's hand and
led him into the warm light. Now, whereve the boy goes, whatever
he does, he is always wanted and he rests in peace, too, in the
arms of the One who made him, and who promised him his beautiful
sister was happy and loved on earth.