Hey baby girl,
I was writing this silly story, in preparation for speaking at a camp this weekend. I wanted to save it for you. I want you to read what I was like when I was little, and what I learned.
When I was a kid my grandparents bought a small vacation home at a place called Bass Lake.
It was, and still is one of my favorite places on the planet.
We would go water skiing, and jump off of rocks, and in the winter go sledding down the driveway. It was an image of childhood perfection.
Except for one memory.
Bass lake had a small shopping area. A grocery store, a tourist shop, a clothing store, and a craft store.
I was 8 years old at the time. We went as a family to the craft store. I walked around as my mom was picking out little knick knacks so that my Dad could paint them.
I found something that caught my eye.
This was in 1993 by the way. I found tubes of T-shirt paint. Paint you could squeeze onto a T-shirt and it wouldn’t wash off. I was enthralled. Not only that, it was neon yellow and neon green. Neon was really cool in 1993.
I brought the paint over to my mom so that she could buy it for me and I would go home and ruin all my t-shirts.
My mom said no.
She said that we have t-shirt paint at home. I know the ones she was talking about. They were in a drawer in the “craft room”. They were pastel yellows and purples and pinks. Pastels! Can you image! A young boy in 1993 with pastel home made t-shirts. I don’t think so.
I needed neon.
But my mom said no.
Something came over me. A interesting idea. To just put two tubes of paint in my pocket. I devised a plan. I would simply just hide them in my pockets, then in my backpack. Then I would hide them in the craft room with all the other pastel t-shirt paint. No one would ever know. Then I could get to my custom t-shirt making! It was a perfect plan.
I walked casually over to the paint. Put them in my pockets then walked right out of the store and sat in the back of our ’89 burgundy dodge caravan with fake wood panels. I took a little peak at the neon green tube in my pocket.
I thought my plan was awesome.
But, all of a sudden I felt really weird. As if what I did wasn’t awesome. As if what I did was wrong, That somehow it was a really dumb idea. I thought about what would happen if I got caught. That my mom would notice the neon paint with her pastels and know exactly what I did.
The neon pain started to burn a hole in my pockets. I had to get rid of them.
We were making a stop at Raley’s the supermarket. I was walking with my mom down the isle and I decided to just stash the paint behind some dehydrated scalloped potato boxes.
My mom must have noticed some of my bizarre behavior. I was able to get the yellow one stashed. Then I was pulling the green one out of my pocket when my mom asked what I was holding.
It put the deepest feeling of dread in my gut. I held it up and told my mom immediately what I did.
It’s funny to think now, but I could’ve lied, possibly covered it up and got away with it. But there was something in me that knew I had to come clean. That my conscience needed to be cleared.
I bawled my eyes out. My mom told my Dad and sister and I went back and sat in the caravan in the back seat in tears. We were driving back to the craft store, because I had to tell them what I did.
For some odd reason, my mom told me that they had every right to call the police on me. I then thought I might be thrown into prison. It was safe to say that this was becoming the worst day of my eight years alive. I cried really hard. I had this really sick feeling in my stomach that I couldn’t make go away.
I walked up to the cashier in tears. There was a nice older lady working there that smelled like cigarettes and had a raspy voice.
“Can I help you?” She could see that I was red with tears and didn’t actually want to buy something.
All I could muster to say was “I stole dis” with that sobbing trying to catch my breathe kind of thing.
“well, thanks for telling us sweetheart. That was bad. But we’re glad you came and told us” she said.
“Are you going to call the police?” I asked?
“no sweetie, it’s ok” she said with a laugh. After all, who would’ve called the police on an already distraught eight year old boy?
The car ride home was long and silent.
I used to be a good little boy, but now I was a thief. I was destined to rob banks and hold up trains with bandanas around my mouth. The entire way I saw myself changed.
I couldn’t get the sad feeling out of my gut. It wouldn’t go away.
I went to my bedroom in the house at bass lake. I jumped under my covers and cried. I cried and whimpered because I had messed myself up.
My dad came in and laid down on the bed beside me and held me. He started to cry too. He said “Justy, I don’t want you to be a thief” and we cried together.
I didn’t become a thief. I never bought a gun. Apart from a train ride on the LRT without a ticket, I never really stole again.
Because a thief wasn’t who I was.
I was loved by my Dad. He came and entered my pain with me. (My mom forgave me too of course) When the tears were gone, we got up and had some dinner.
I’m not a thief. I don’t identify myself by what I did wrong. I am loved. That’s who I am. And that is who you are.
You belong to a family, and a God, who loves you no matter what you do. You don’t need to have that sick feeling in your gut for very long. Because love casts those kinds of things away.
Baby girl, you know that if you do something wrong. That doesn't change who you are. You can make mistakes, and you probably will. Sometimes you might have consequences and punishments. Sometimes you might have that sick feeling in your gut. You might even feel like you disappointed me and mom. But, it is never going to change the fact that we love you so much. Nothing will ever change that. You can spill milk all over the kitchen table, and spill cheerios on the carpet. It doesn't matter! Jesus loves you so much. He always will. And we always will too. Ok?
You're never going to be seen by what you do wrong. That doesn't define who you are. You were so beautiful that Jesus died for all the mistakes you'll make. That is who you are. You were brought into the world because me and mommy wanted you, because God wanted you. Nothing. will. ever. change. that!
