Sunshine and Theology 101

Sunshine:  Theology 101
After I pick up Sunshine from Gateway Christian Preschool, we always have lunch together.

Having lunch with Sunshine is always an interesting event, even if it involves copious amounts of pbj, milk, and applesauce.  All it takes is a simple question, and her vast wealth of knowledge and opinions come flooding out like gold coins from Scrooge McDuck’s vault.

All I have to ask, “What did you learn at school today?”

Just before Easter, Sunshine’s eyes brightened at that question, and without missing a bite of pbj, or a drop of the jam from the oozy edges, Sunshine told me.  “I learned all about Jesus.  And, Grandma, did you know…” 

She paused for a swig of 2% milk, and to allow me to mop off her face.  “Did you know that Jesus gotted nailed to a cross?  That’s a thing that has two pieces of wood that make a small ‘t’.  The bad Romans (Where did she hear about them, I wondered.) took big nails, Grandma, really big nails.”  She spread her hands about a foot apart.  “And then they hammered them through Jesus’ hands, really hard.  Right through Jesus’ hands.”

Her wide blue eyes made contact with my green eyes, to make sure I understood what she said.  Oh, I understood.  I could feel His bones breaking, and the blood dripping onto the wood.  My green eyes became misty with tears.

With casual care, Sunshine licked off the strawberry jam that she had squeezed out from the bread, on purpose.  She likes to do that, and I don’t blame her; so do I.

“Then they stood the cross up like this,” Sunshine demonstrated with her yellow IKEA plastic spoon, “and dropped it in a hole like this.”  She brought down the spoon hard into the bowl of applesauce.  “That woulda really hurted, you know.”

Again her eyes looked deeply into mine, checking for understanding just like any good teacher would.  Oh, I understood how the cross would have hit the ground with a vibrating thud, and how this would have shook Christ’s body with waves of pain.  My eyes blinked at hers several times.

She told me the whole story, event by event, while I remained very still, listening and watching as my almost 5 year old granddaughter explained salvation to me.  “Miss Kenny gived us each a paper cross we color on, and I decided to color my cross like a sunset.”  I looked confused, I suppose, for now she patiently explained her ideas as if I were only 4 years old. 

“You see, Grandma, the red is for the Blood of Jesus, which He gave away so we can see Him in Heaven.  Then the orange is for the sunset when Jesus died.”  Another bite of pbj, and the last swallow of milk.  “Can I have some more milk, Grandma?”  Without missing a beat while I automatically poured the milk into her pink IKEA cup, Sunshine lowered her voice to a whisper.  “Then I used yellow.  You know why I used yellow?” 

I shook my head, for at this point I didn’t want to or couldn’t talk.  “Well, the yellow is for sunrise, when Jesus got up out of His grave.  That meaned that He wasn’t dead anymore, that He was alive!”  She slammed her hand on the table.  “There!  See!  Jesus is alive!”

With the last bite of pbj, and the last swipe of the spoon around the bowl of applesauce, Sunshine finished up.  “Then I colored around the cross in blue, ‘cause Jesus went up to Heaven, and He’s waiting there for all of us.”  She gazed into my eyes and asked, “Grandma, why are you crying?  This is good news, not bad.  Jesus is alive!”

I pulled her into my lap and wrapped my arms around her.  Sunshine wiped her gooey face into my tee-shirt, and filled me with her warmth.  Yes, He’s alive, Sunshine.

Susan Kane

April 27, 2011

This is a re-post from six years ago.  I had forgotten about until I checked comments in Hold for Moderation section.  Sunshine is now eleven, my height, with the same blue eyes.  And she still knows what Jesus did for us.

Stupid Things I Have Done: #347

In case you are thinking that this number is an over-the-span-of-my life number, it is not.  I rack up the numbers to 1000, and then I start the cycle over again.  I haven’t kept track of the number of 1000s that have accumulated.  It didn’t seem feasible, and certainly not something I want to have locked in my memory, over and over.

This time the episode of stupidity occurred in St. Louis, Missouri.  It must be stated before admitting to this act, that I was in an altered state of mind, and may not have been totally responsible for a lapse in judgment.

No, not that type of altered state which some of you may be conjuring in your own minds.  My husband John, son JK, daughter Christina, and Myself had come from distant points in the U.S. to Illinois; my mother was dying, and we were there to say good-bye to her, and then bury her.  We spent untold hours in her home, looking for photographs and nostalgic items that had value only to us. 

We drove down to St. Louis the day before our flights back to our home.  Only a few hours remained in the afternoon, so JK suggested we visit a museum he had heard about:  The City Museum.  It sounded good, going to a quiet museum, looking at old photos, bones of bison, reading about local heroes, and such.  Quiet, calm, meditative—it sounded good to me.

With directions, we drove into a desperate part of St. Louis.  It once had been a thriving industrial area, where all sorts of goods were made, and then shipped out on train or along the Mississippi River to parts unknown.  Shoes, buttons, linens, lace—you name it, and it was once a product made there.  There were big brick buildings, maybe ten stories or more, with blank dusty windows lined up blindly on the walls.  Most were now silent, excepting this one building now converted to a museum: The City Museum.

It wasn’t what I expected.  Some brilliant artist/architect with massive money and effort had transformed this rectangular brick block into an amazing play ground, inside and out.  He used repurposed industrial materials, tons of gears and marbles, old rollers, and whatever else you can think up.  From these, he fashioned a fantasy land in which a full size white whale with gaping mouth silently invited exploration.  Dinosaurs, tunnels made from industrial rebar, child-sized caves and slides wove in and out on each other.  Just when one might think he was lost, an employee stood sentry, keeping vigilance on this miraculous castle. 

So, you might ask, “What did you do that was so stupid?”  This:  We climbed up a wildly winding staircase, from which different landings extended to floor waiting for more exploration.  But, we stayed on the staircase, going up and up, until we climbed ten stories.  Now, I was fine with this climb.  No problem going up, but my knees hate the climbing down. 

When we reached the tenth floor, we were at our destination:  the slick steel slide down seven stories.  It was a tube, with open rebar curved over the top, and the steel inviting ones’ buttocks to take a chance.  Here is where the stupidity part happened. 

Deep inside, I heard the caution voice, but I said, “Heck, why not?  Why not, indeed?”  So, when my turn came, I sat my own buttocks on the slide and let go. 

The slide was slick and it was fast.  Instinctively my hands tried to grab onto the rebar sides, and I caught a finger on each hand.  Not caught, but snagged, and I immediately pulled my hands onto my chest.  Then, my buttocks were going up the left side on a right curve, so my right foot instinctively reached out to slow my descent.  The rubber sole heel held a moment too long, and my right leg torqued, twisting my right ankle and causing my knee to complain in silent but insistent throbs.

I immediately gave into the slide’s will, crossing my feet, and lying down, “Slide, Slide, do what you will.”  When I reached the bottom, my laughing grown children were there to pull me up and away from my husband, who came down with his tennis shoes smoking, after using them as brakes all the way down.  Not really, but it is a fitting image.

That night, I iced my ankle and knee, discovering that I had friction burns on both elbows, and a red streak on my back, where my shirt had ridden up along the wild ride.  Since that day, I have dealt with different pains in my fingers, knee, and ankle.  Yes, #347, I was stupid, but it was worth it, every bit of it.

Susan Kane

Stupid things: #347

April 13, 2011

Reflections of the A-Z Blogfest

Mirror, mirror (courtesy of Bing.com)

A reflection typically is what one sees when looking into a mirror, or a shiny surface.  Looking at this past month, I have observed:

*  Discipline—creating and planning, then writing on an almost daily basis required me to adhere to a deadline. Forethought and having a notepad & pen was necessary at all times.

*  Introspection—looking into myself, and pondering how to approach an assignment differently each day.  Questioning myself about what I wanted the reader to experience was always in front of me.

*  Variety—I like humor, I can be dark, I like to turn ideas over and relate them to something else totally opposite.  I like narrative, I like dialogue.  I like to see God in all the events I observe. This allowed me to explore all those ‘likes’.

Summarizing, this was a great experience, demanding and gritty at times.  I grew as a writer.
This was a daunting task for the A-Z team.  Thank you for your diligence, craziness, and encouragement.  Go to the following link for more reflections:  tossingitout.blogspot.com