“Why do we always read the Bible?” It was Eamon, their difficult one, who posed the question.
Donnigan laid the book carefully back on the table.
“Because,” he said with great feeling, “that is the only way that we can get to know God—who He is—and who He wishes us to be—how He wants us to live.”
Eamon shrugged, seemingly unconvinced—or else just un-concerned.
“We already know about Him,” said the five-year-old boy. He had been told the same stories often enough that he should know them by heart by now.
“Do we?” said his father. “Maybe we do. Let’s see. Tell me what you know about God—all of you.”
Eamon looked surprised.
It was the outgoing Fiona who responded first. “He made—everything.” She swung her hand in a big arc to include as much as she could.
“He made the waters come down,” said Brenna softly, “an’ all the animals went in the boat.”
“He’s sorta—magic,” said Sean.
“Magic? How?” prompted Donnigan.
“He can do things that no one else can do.”
Donnigan nodded.
“He deads people when they’re bad,” said Eamon.
“Kills people,” corrected Kathleen, and then felt shock at her own statement.
“He doesn’t kill people,” argued Fiona, casting a disgusted look Eamon’s way.
“He does too,” insisted Eamon. “What about the men the earth ate up? And what about when the flood came?”
“The people were already in the big boat,” cut in Fiona quickly.
“Uh-uh. Nope,” said Eamon, shaking his head emphatically. “Only Noah and his wife and them others were in the boat.”
“There were eight,” cut in Sean who always listened well to the Bible stories. “Noah and his wife and three sons and their wives.”
But Eamon didn’t seem to care much about the particulars.
“Well—all the other people got dead,” insisted Eamon.
“That’s ‘cause God was mad,” interposed Brenna softly. The fact didn’t seem to trouble her in the least.
“I don’t dead people just ’cause I’m mad,” said Eamon.
“You’re not God,” Fiona quickly flung back at him. Her voice was shrill and angry.
“Just a minute,” said Donnigan. The little conversation was getting totally out of hand and not at all what he had intended.
“Sit down—all of you. I think we need to discuss this.”
The children all sat down, as told, though Eamon looked reluctant to do so and was the last child to finally take his place on the kitchen floor.
Oh, God, Donnigan found his very soul crying out, help me with this. Please help me.
He turned back to the ring of children—the wonderful yet frightening responsibility that God had given to him. What were the right words? Did he have the truth to share with them? Or was he still dreadfully lacking?
“God made us,” he began. “And He wants us good—like Fiona said. But people didn’t stay good. Remember the story about Adam. He did bad. And after that it was very easy for all men—and women—to do bad, too.”
Donnigan stopped, took a deep breath and licked his lips.
“Now God didn’t stop with just making this world,” he went on, hoping that he had his thoughts right. “He also made a beautiful heaven. It has everything in it to make us happy—and nothing in it to make us sad. God made heaven for people. But He also made a hell. He made it bad. In fact, He made it just as bad as it could possibly be so that no one would want to go there. So that people would try very hard not to go there.”
Donnigan stopped again and looked at the little faces around him.
“I don’t want to go there,” put in Fiona, shaking her head emphatically.
“But people were still bad,” went on Donnigan. “God told them and told them to be good—but they liked being bad, better.
“From time to time, there was a man who wanted to be good. To do what God told him. So when God would find a man like that, He would talk with him, help him, and sometimes God even felt that it was important to get the good man away from the bad people.”
Donnigan stopped and looked straight at the squirming young Eamon.
“It is very easy for even good people to be—be followers of bad people. God knew that. So sometimes He took the good people away from the bad place where they lived. Like He did with Abraham when He called him away from Ur. Like He did with Noah and his family when He had them build the boat. He sent the flood of water to save Noah and his family from the evil around them. If Noah had stayed with the bad people, his family might have soon become bad, too.
“But sometimes, God used other ways. There were many good people—and bad people mixed in with them. Well, God knew that if the bad people were allowed to stay there and do the wrong things—then it wouldn’t be long until other people would be doing wrong things too.
“So God took the bad people away. Like the big earthquake that swallowed them up. Yes—they were killed. That was the way God could be sure that they wouldn’t—wouldn’t spread their evil—their bad to others.
“You see—God didn’t really kill the bad people because He hated them and was in a temper. Oh, He hated the sinful things they did—the way they lived. But God destroyed them so that they wouldn’t destroy others—so that others wouldn’t learn to be bad, too.”
He looked at the little faces before him. Sean sat listening carefully, seeming to take in every word. Fiona listened with her head tipped to one side, her fingers twisting in the folds of her dress, her toes wiggling impatiently in the worn boots. Brenna sat quietly, one arm cradling her doll. She appeared to be listening, but Donnigan wondered if Brenna, the little dreamer, might silently be humming a little tune to her baby.
Eamon stirred restlessly. His eyes were not on his father’s face. He was watching a spider that crawled up the outside of the window. Donnigan prayed inwardly that Eamon might have heard more of his words than he had let on.
Timothy, at three, wiggled and listened by turn, seemingly catching a word here and there that interested him, then turning his attention back to the small hole in the knee of his pants.
Their baby Rachel, sitting on her mother’s lap, paid little attention to her father’s words, though she was intent on studying his face.
Six children—all different—all in need of heaven, thought Donnigan. God, help me to get them there.
Eamon continued to be their “tester.” Often they heard the same defense: “You didn’t tell me not to.”
When he cut all the tops off the early spring carrots to feed the bush rabbits in the woods along the creek, when he cropped baby Rachel’s silky curls with Kathleen’s sewing scissors, when he threw a hen off the barn roof to see if she could fly, when he left the poor pony out in the pasture blindfolded to test if she could see in the dark. At all of these times, and many more, Eamon would shrug his shoulders with the same answer: “You never told me not to.”
How could their minds possibly keep ahead of the young boy’s?
Timothy, on the other hand, was cheery and cooperative. He followed along after his older siblings, grinning at their accomplishments, clapping at their exploits, seemingly thinking that everything they did was terribly right and brilliant.
Kathleen rejoiced in the small boy. He was such a delightful change from the rambunctious, ever-pressing Eamon. No challenging, no arguments, no talking back.
But Donnigan watched his small son and felt concern. Kathleen could not understand his worry. “He’s so easygoing and pleasant. All the others dote on him.”
“That’s just the point,” replied Donnigan. “He might get the idea that’s what life’s about. Pleasing others. Being fussed over. You can’t always please others, you know. Sometimes you have to take a stand for what is right. You have to be one person against the crowd. Timothy is too quick to try to please. Too quick to do whatever he is urged to do. No. I’m thinking that boy might take more wisdom to raise than we think.”