The other night after the young boys were all tucked in, *E* came into the hallway in tears as the Husband was heading downstairs.
I heard snippets of conversation and I heard the Husband go back into *E*'s room before coming downstairs a few minutes later.
"He's so sensitive," the Husband said, clearly moved by the exchange.
*E* was reading his Bible before going to sleep and the story of baby Moses being put in a basket to float off upset him so much that he needed some help. The Husband tucked him back in and together they finished reading the story, with daddy assuring *E* that Moses was safe and had lots of people to love and care for him and that his own mother was even able to care for him.
When I think about that story, I admit I get a little ball of hurt in the pit of my stomach too. Count those types of things among the things I don't even want to try to imagine.
13 years ago another boy in our family was attending his first Sunday School class in a church we had just begun attending. He was 3 and he heard the story of the Widow's Mite. That little boy was in tears that day and ended up sitting on Mrs. B's lap, so upset was he about how the widow would survive with no money. How would she get food? (The teacher came to tell us about it, because she said all she could think was, "they're a new family, they'll probably never come back." But we did. :) )
Those Bible stories took on new meaning for me when I read them through the eyes of my children. They were opportunities for them to learn of God's faithful provision and for me to be reminded of it. Their compassion and caring touched my heart too (and whenever the 16 yo is being particularly cranky, it helps to remember those times when his compassion wasn't overshadowed by teenage bravado. :) )
The children lead me and teach me and help me grow.
Wishing you opportunities to learn and grow through all times and places and perhaps with unlikely or unexpected "teachers".