Davalynn Spencer @davalynnspencer
A child’s perspective can open our eyes to things we’ve forgotten about as adults.
Like the vintage carnival-prize horse that belonged to my husband’s mother. My granddaughter discovered her great-grandmother’s prize a few years ago and let me know that she placed high value upon it. She turned it over and around and even hugged it to her little chest in adoration.
One day when she was visiting, she went predictably to the bronze figure and picked it up, surprised by the piece of paper taped to its belly.
“That’s your name on there,” I said when she looked to me for explanation. “Someday, that horse will be yours.”
Again, she hugged it endearingly.
Each visit since, she checks to see if the tape is still there. “My name is on it,” she says. “And tape.”
She’s reminding me of her future ownership as well as reassuring herself that I won’t forget.
Though she doesn’t know it, this little girl is also reminding me of God’s unfailing love for us as His children.
The Old Testament prophet, Isaiah, encouraged people by saying, “Can a mother forget the baby at her breast and have no compassion on the child she has borne? Though she may forget, I [God] will not forget you! See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands;” (Isaiah 49:15,16).
In the New Testament, Jesus told His disciples upon their return from seeing evil succumb to God’s power, “Don’t rejoice that the spirits submit to you, rejoice that your names are written in heaven” (Luke 10:20).
It’s important where our names are written.
My granddaughter is in love with horses – a common malady among young girls that often hangs around through adulthood. I suffered from it myself and was never quite cured.
Perhaps this has something to do with why Jesus said, “Let the children come to me … for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these” (Matthew 19:14).
What they love as children will hopefully take root and grow into a part of their lives that never fades or dies.
“Rejoice because your names are written in heaven.”My name is written Click To Tweet
The drawers in the desk itself held loose paper and ledgers, envelopes and a rolled parchment tied with ribbon. Hugh looked over his shoulder as if the Dodsons themselves would find him snooping. But they were gone and he wasn’t. He pulled the ribbon and read the document. His stomach dropped.
In fancy bold script, Last Will & Testament scrolled across the top. It named the Dodsons’ niece, Mary Agan McCrae, as the heir to all the worldly possessions of Ernest Edward Dodson and Bertha Agan Dodson, including the homestead and its increased acreage—a second section. The Dodsons had added to their holdings with no one the wiser.
At the bottom, a third signature followed the Dodsons’: T. F. Beckman, Attorney at Law.
“This changes everything.” The words cut harsh through the room. Who and where was Mary Agan McCrae? No one he’d ever heard of in Fremont County had a name like that. Where were these people from?
Like a black snake, an idea slithered through his mind. He could destroy the will and no one would know. ~Hope Is Built
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