Our five-year-old son Max hurried downstairs for breakfast still in his pyjamas. Max had just finished his first week of kindergarten and he was excited to learn to read.
“Mom,” Max said, his blond hair spiked in all directions as he slid into a chair in the kitchen nook, “God’s writing me something.”
“What do you mean?” I said, setting the waffles and syrup on the table.
“At night, sometimes, he writes on the wall.”
“There’s writing on your wall?” I was quick to ask.
“No. Not now. You can only see it at night and I can’t read the long words.”
The earnest look on his face told me he was serious. “If it happens again, do you want me to read it for you?” I asked.
Max nodded vigorously.
Three-year-old Grant climbed onto his chair and folded his hands, eager to eat. “Let’s pray,” he announced. He and Max shared a bedroom and they were best buddies.
Prayer said, and youngest son eating, I turned back to Max. “Okay, when you see more words, call for me and I’ll come to your room.”
Worry lines now gone from his face, Max hiked up the sleeves on his Batman pajamas, stabbed a waffle and grabbed the now sticky syrup bottle his brother had abandoned.
That evening I was on alert, but no little voice called out. The next morning I asked Max if any words had appeared. “No,” he yelled over the noise of Grant pushing his corn popper toy. “He didn’t write last night.”
I gave him a hopeful nod, not wanting to discourage. After a difficult week of dealing with teen moms in the ministry I led, I was waiting on God, too. How was I to help these young unwed mothers understand that the love they looked for wasn’t in a physical relationship but in a relationship with their creator? If only God could “write on their wall” that life was found only in him.
Three nights later, just before I drifted off to sleep, I heard a loud whisper coming from the boys’ room. It was Max. “Mom! He’s writing.”
I woke my husband and we hurried down the hall. My heart raced.
Max pointed and there, in a long, bright four-inch wide line was what looked like letters being written on the textured wall. I tried to make out words, letters. Then, I breathed.
“Max, honey, you know what, that’s the moonlight coming in under the window blinds and see, the tree branches are moving so it looks like writing.”
“Oh,” he said, disappointed. “So God wasn’t writing to me.”
My heart went out to him and I held him tight. He’d been so excited to hear from God—a message just for him. “Max, who made the moon and the trees?”
“God.”
“Right. And what he created made you think of him. I can just see him smiling, thrilled that your first thought was of him.”
Max lifted his face and nodded.
“Let’s see, how long did we wait to see this on the wall?”
“A long time,” Max said.
“Yes, a few days. But we don’t have to wait to hear from God.” I picked up the children’s Bible on the floor next to his bed. “We can read what he wrote us and talk to him anytime.”
And right then and there, we did just that. Two blond-haired boys, my husband and I—all reading a message that God wrote… just for Max, just for us, just for you.
What a wonderful opportunity we have as writers. Writing stories that will touch hearts enough to cause readers to think of spiritual things. And we can do it through the lives of our characters.
Australian author, Rita Stella Galieh is now finalizing editing on her new novel set in colonial Malaya & London in the Victorian Era.
Miss Kate's Great Expectations.
www.ritastellapress.com
