Benny is two, maybe three. He is walking ahead of me as I push the stroller. I am nervous, unsure about letting him walk this particular sidewalk.
It is along King Street, much busier than our little street, and there is no curb between the sidewalk and the road. Cars zip along dangerously close. B-Boy stays close to the grass, as I constantly remind him to. He seems happy with this, and with the newfound freedom of being allowed to walk instead of being strapped into the stroller. But as he moves farther ahead of me, my heart starts to race. My instinct (and past experience) tells me that this scenario may not play out very well. I remind him once more “Stay close to the grass”. No lengthy explanations — they usually fall on deaf ears anyway.
He knows what he needs to do, but in one quick moment, he chooses to exercise his own will.
He darts in front of me, into my path, heading for the street. Without thinking, and unable to grab him with the stroller between us, I ram the stroller into his path.
It hits him, throwing him to the ground, but it comes between him and the car that would have hit him. He sits on the sidewalk crying. He is hurt and he wails “Why did you hurt me, Mommy?”.
I put my arms around him and explain why. The temporary pain of being run into with a stroller is nothing compared to the permanent damage that would certainly have resulted from being run over by a car. He still doesn’t understand, but is comforted soon enough.
And it hits me: How often do we question God and His motives?
How often do we feel hurt and betrayed by God for allowing things to happen in our lives when we don’t know what they may have been saving us from?
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