Becoming a Child Again

Photo by Rudy Anderson at Pixabay

Jesus tells us in Matthew 18:3 that “unless you turn and become like children, you will not enter the kingdom of heaven.” I can’t remember the last time I was so overwhelmed with joy I jumped around and squealed with delight like a child.

I thought that meant to have faith and trust like a child, but what if he also means to have the same joy?

Since my vow this last year to be happy,  I don't spend time anxiously trying to figure out how to solve all the problems in my life or the world. Instead, I offer the intentions in prayer every morning, give the worry to him, and listen for his urging in what step I should take next, whether it be more prayer or some kind of action. He never fails to indicate in one way or the other what He wants me to do.

Without that kind of pressure, I do enjoy more things, anticipating the pleasant rather than the unpleasant, and can lose myself in an activity without feeling anxious about a current problem. Come to think of it, depending entirely on Him and not myself is very much like becoming a child again.

With this freedom I have been more productive with writing and painting. Productive but still a bit critical. That too has a purpose, as long as I don’t dwell on the imperfections and instead work to improve. Same with faith and trust. It takes practice and effort to get better at it.

Children do that. They keep working at the things they love, eternally optimistic they can achieve anything. They also see the wonder and the beauty of things many adults take for granted. My art has kept me from becoming complacent in that regard, always looking for subjects for future paintings, but life has beaten down the unbridled joy of a child at Christmas.

Will I ever gain that back? Probably not, but I can keep working on my vow to be happy regardless of my circumstances, one hour, one day, one step at a time.

As my heroine in my current novel says, “We may not know what the future holds for us. All we can see is today, an hour at a time — stepping-stones leading us toward the fulfillment of God’s plan for our lives, but regardless of where our path leads, what sorrows we will endure, we can be sure the path will also be filled with great joy.”

May it be child like in its exuberance, unfiltered, and fully expressed. 

Golf Carts

After my husband retired, he wanted to live in an over fifty-five community. A place where cars didn’t jump up and down or stereos didn’t sear your eardrums from half a block away. No racing motorcycles whose mufflers seemed to be their only decoration.

We moved south to the land of perpetual sun and into a retirement community, right on a beautiful golf course. It was quiet, but the quiet was deceptive.

Our first morning we were shaken by a horrendous thud against the house. We ran out to the patio.  A golf ball hit the side of the house with such force it bored through the stucco and into the interior support mesh. We promptly moved the patio furniture to the other end of the patio and hopefully out of the line of fire.

We took a walk around the neighborhood. Tire tracks appeared during the night. The black marks ran over the curb and bumped along the sidewalk for several yards before finally regained the road. Night vision problems, difficulty in concentration, or too much to drink?

Most cities have bike lanes. This community had golf cart lanes. Yes, golf cart lanes along every roadway, and designated golf cart spaces, right next to the handicapped spaces in every parking lot. These electric vehicles were silent, but their sudden appearances were deadly. They shot out from alleyways, driveways, and intersections at lightening speeds, far faster than their drivers ever attempted in a full-size vehicle.

However, in the grocery store these Daytona 500 drivers dropped to a pace slower than the desert tortoise. They also kept to the center lane, preventing faster traffic from passing. If you were unlucky to get behind a health-conscious senior, you had two choices. Turn around and go another way or pull up a chair and have a cup of coffee while they read the ingredients on every item in the isle — on both sides. I’m not kidding.

On Christmas Eve the community had a parade. A hundred and twenty-five golf carts, decked out in lights and playing Christmas carols, wound up and down every street and cul de sac. It was a sight to see. I mentioned something about ships in the desert to my husband and got an elbow in my ribs.

While having lunch one afternoon we overheard two elderly gentlemen discussing how to leave a tip for the waitress. They couldn’t figure out the change. After the waitress eventually rescued them, we watched to see which vehicle they climbed into and which direction they went. We went in the exact opposite.

After these incidents we weren’t too surprised to hear this small community had a higher accident rate than Tucson to the north.

My husband met another retired gentleman at the dog park. They compared community experiences.

The gentleman concluded, “You know I’ve just got to get away from all these old codgers.  They are driving me nuts and what’s even scarier, I am an old codger!”

Well, there are different degrees of old codgers...the Cognitive and the Not So Cognitive.

We moved a short time later into a mixed community. Kids ride their scooters and bikes up and down the sidewalk in front of our house. Young people drive too fast and leave skid marks at the stop sign. That’s okay. The center isle at the grocery store is very rarely blocked and we have yet to see one tire mark on the sidewalk.

This experience underlined the necessity for diversity.

“Thank you, Lord, for creating a world with infinite diversity. Amen.”