Life, imagination and a toy truck

WAS JAWING ON THE PHONE the other night with my daughter JoAnna about our unique, mundane matters of the day such as work and this, that and the other. In the background, I heard the staccato chatter of my 3-year-old grandson John in the background. He wanted to get in on the action and tell me about his day. Or at least the latest moments of it.

Playin’ with my truck! Papaw! he proclaimed after his Mama handed him the cell. It go weeeeeeeeeel fast – see!!!!

Obviously, I couldn’t see it since our common technology didn’t connect us that way. But when your grinning toddler greets you with such news there’s only one response: Course, I do, buddy. Wow! That truck is really flying!

A day or so later I recalled and chuckled about that brief conversation with John, as I have in similar instances with my other grandchildren and my now-adult daughters when they were younger. He was sharing a moment with me and assumed I could see it as clearly as he could, and it wasn’t necessary for me to be there.

Imagination: How soon the world does its best to pound and stomp it of you at such an early age.  Even that most-revered Einstein, a giant of science that still baffles us once said, Imagination is everything. It’s the preview of life’s coming attractions.




I recall how my all-too-fertile briefly caught the attention of my Sunday School nearly a half century ago . She had just read us a children’s story during the Easter Season about Jesus entering Jerusalem’s Temple during the last few days of his life. We were told he was angry at the way moneychangers and others were profiting from the dreams and desires of poor people who had made their journey for Passover. This foot-traveling pastor started knocking over tables and kicking coins around, scaring the bejeebers – so to speak – out of folks.

After the story, we had the assignment of drawing a picture of what we had learned. Seemed to me that Jesus was pretty riled up. My imagination filled in the blanks.

It didn’t take me long to translate this story with Crayola: A snarling Jesus was there in the square with a Thompson machine gun blasting away at the blasphemers, many of them ducking under tables and a few of them spurting blood like geysers from huge bullet holes. I think he was even wearing a camouflage-covered helmet. Cowering in the corner were the important guys in tall hats, scrambling to get out of the line of fire. A few of them had been shredded, too.


Overhead, fighter plans and bombers were making their moves to pacify the area, flames blasting from their engines. Why not? if your ground commander is from Heaven it seems appropriate that air support should be available.


Obviously, my Sunday school teacher didn’t agree with my interpretation. I assumed so because my creation wasn't taped to the wall of our classroom along with those of my classmates.

Of course, I am much older and more understanding now in most matters of faith. Jesus isn’t a blood-thirsty Rambo and doesn’t want us any of us to be either. In fact, any Deity or faith that requires the murder of others in the name of their God is just wrong.



Also have since learned this: I have traipsed through this tapestry of life amassing this and and that in experience and knowledge. I am a grown man, you see, and know of the many portals, detours and exits I face. And I am still a child.


Yet, I am glad to have that opportunity to see that same fast, free-wheeling truck that makes a 3-year-old grandson scream with fun.  It pauses me. And for good reason.


Life in this world is meant to go weeeeeeeelllllll