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Authors: Phil Callaway
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Inside was a genuine replica of “the one ring.” White gold, complete with Elvish engravings.
“What about ours?” whined the other two.
“You wait,” I told them.
I read a short verse of Scripture: “‘So fear the L ORD and serve him wholeheartedly,’ Joshua 24:14. For sixteen years that’s been our prayer for you, Steve. That you would honor God and serve Him.”
We prayed together, committing this child and his future to God. Then I took the ring, hung it from a gold chain, placed it about his neck, and kissed his forehead before he squirmed away.
There the ring stayed.
Until the night Steve arrived home from school carrying small pieces of the chain. He could scarcely bring himself to tell me.
It had broken, he knew not when.
The ring was gone, we knew not where.
We searched everywhere. Along sidewalks and hallways. Through classrooms and cars. Then we began looking in ridiculous places, like the toolshed and heating vents. Nothing. It was permanently gone, I knew. Hanging about someone else’s neck. Adorning another’s jewelry case.
So Steve began to pray.
His younger sister and brother joined him too. At suppertime, they prayed that we would find the ring. At breakfast they prayed, believing. I hated to doubt, but I am a grownup. I’ve gotten very good at it.
“There’s more chance of the Chicago Cubs winning the World Series,” I told my wife.
“They’re not even in it,” she said.
“Precisely.”
We had other things to pray about too, of course. Things that seemed just as impossible. Decisions related to Mom and Dad and life and work.
Steve told his grandparents about the ring. They didn’t know what a Frodo was, but they too began to pray.
Months passed. Winter came and went. The dazzling white snow that covered the field through which my son sometimes walks to school began to melt. And one evening as we sat down to eat together, I noticed a particularly broad grin on Steve’s face. As we ransacked a roast chicken, he told us he’d been walking home from school when a glint of reflected sunlight caught his eye. He then held his hand out and opened it.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. The ring. White gold, with Elvish etchings. As good as new. Back from Middle Earth.
Oh me of little faith.
Do you know what my prayer had been all this time? That he wouldn’t be too disappointed when his prayers weren’t answered. Here I was, praying that God wouldn’t dash the boy’s hopes too badly. There he was, asking God to do the impossible, something He has delighted in doing since the dawn of time.
The ring hangs about Steve’s neck from a sturdier chain now. I hope it will serve as a constant reminder to honor the Lord and serve Him wholeheartedly. I hope it will remind the rest of us that those who seek find, that those who ask receive, and that grownups of little faith sometimes get another chance.
Accept the fact that there will be moments when
your children will hate you. This is normal and natural.
But how a child handles hate may determine whether
he will go to Harvard or San Quentin
.
A NN L ANDERS
Abounding grace is the hope of mankind
.
A. W. T OZER
H ave you ever wondered if there’s hope for the next generation? I certainly have. They’ve got more earrings than brain cells. They’re confused. They don’t know which way to point their hats or how high to pull their pants. They have problems with their eyesight. They can’t find a thing to eat in a fridge full of food nor a thing to wear in a closet full of clothes. They’re glued to their cell phones—when they’re not chatting online in brief, meaningless sentences.
Whenever I share such thoughts with my wife, she just grins. I worry about the kids, she tells me, because they’re a lot like me. And she is right. Not a lot of grownups lit up with hope when they saw me.
I was a skinny child. So skinny that I had only one vertical stripe on my pajamas. So skinny that I needed suspenders to hold up my Speedo.
“What about ours?” whined the other two.
“You wait,” I told them.
I read a short verse of Scripture: “‘So fear the L ORD and serve him wholeheartedly,’ Joshua 24:14. For sixteen years that’s been our prayer for you, Steve. That you would honor God and serve Him.”
We prayed together, committing this child and his future to God. Then I took the ring, hung it from a gold chain, placed it about his neck, and kissed his forehead before he squirmed away.
There the ring stayed.
Until the night Steve arrived home from school carrying small pieces of the chain. He could scarcely bring himself to tell me.
It had broken, he knew not when.
The ring was gone, we knew not where.
We searched everywhere. Along sidewalks and hallways. Through classrooms and cars. Then we began looking in ridiculous places, like the toolshed and heating vents. Nothing. It was permanently gone, I knew. Hanging about someone else’s neck. Adorning another’s jewelry case.
So Steve began to pray.
His younger sister and brother joined him too. At suppertime, they prayed that we would find the ring. At breakfast they prayed, believing. I hated to doubt, but I am a grownup. I’ve gotten very good at it.
“There’s more chance of the Chicago Cubs winning the World Series,” I told my wife.
“They’re not even in it,” she said.
“Precisely.”
We had other things to pray about too, of course. Things that seemed just as impossible. Decisions related to Mom and Dad and life and work.
Steve told his grandparents about the ring. They didn’t know what a Frodo was, but they too began to pray.
Months passed. Winter came and went. The dazzling white snow that covered the field through which my son sometimes walks to school began to melt. And one evening as we sat down to eat together, I noticed a particularly broad grin on Steve’s face. As we ransacked a roast chicken, he told us he’d been walking home from school when a glint of reflected sunlight caught his eye. He then held his hand out and opened it.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. The ring. White gold, with Elvish etchings. As good as new. Back from Middle Earth.
Oh me of little faith.
Do you know what my prayer had been all this time? That he wouldn’t be too disappointed when his prayers weren’t answered. Here I was, praying that God wouldn’t dash the boy’s hopes too badly. There he was, asking God to do the impossible, something He has delighted in doing since the dawn of time.
The ring hangs about Steve’s neck from a sturdier chain now. I hope it will serve as a constant reminder to honor the Lord and serve Him wholeheartedly. I hope it will remind the rest of us that those who seek find, that those who ask receive, and that grownups of little faith sometimes get another chance.
Accept the fact that there will be moments when
your children will hate you. This is normal and natural.
But how a child handles hate may determine whether
he will go to Harvard or San Quentin
.
A NN L ANDERS
Abounding grace is the hope of mankind
.
A. W. T OZER
H ave you ever wondered if there’s hope for the next generation? I certainly have. They’ve got more earrings than brain cells. They’re confused. They don’t know which way to point their hats or how high to pull their pants. They have problems with their eyesight. They can’t find a thing to eat in a fridge full of food nor a thing to wear in a closet full of clothes. They’re glued to their cell phones—when they’re not chatting online in brief, meaningless sentences.
Whenever I share such thoughts with my wife, she just grins. I worry about the kids, she tells me, because they’re a lot like me. And she is right. Not a lot of grownups lit up with hope when they saw me.
I was a skinny child. So skinny that I had only one vertical stripe on my pajamas. So skinny that I needed suspenders to hold up my Speedo.
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