Never Too Little for Jesus

"Is that up there the cross Jesus died on?" Lydia whispered to me, pointing to the decorative wooden cross hanging above the baptistry in our church building.

"No," I whispered back. "That one helps us remember that Jesus died on a cross."

Earlier on that Resurrection Sunday, we had gathered around a handmade, life-size cross. Each of us, including the children, had taken turns dipping our fingers in red paint and putting our fingerprints on the cross to illustrate the lesson that it is our individual sins that caused the necessity of the crucifixion. Lydia, age three, was completely fascinated by the entire process.

She studied the cross with a frown on her face, silently reaching over to hold my hand. She was thinking deep thoughts during this particular communion time and I continued on into my prayers, thinking she was done with her question.

"Because the other one has blood on it. Because we did that up there?" she said somewhat softly, pointing to the cross covered with red fingerprints.

"On Easter we put pretend blood on it to remember Jesus died to forgive us our sins," I smiled and explained. Her big blue eyes lit up with understanding and she grinned.

"And now this cross," she said in a voice growing louder with excitement as she pointed to the decorative cross over the baptistry, " we get a clean cross because the sins all wented away."

"Yes," I agreed. "We are clean inside because Jesus died for us. His blood forgives sin."

"Why? So it would be blood?" she reasoned, leaning against me.

"Jesus loves us," I assured her in a soft whisper. "We're having quiet communion time to remember Jesus loves us enough to die for us."

"And we remember every day right? Because we pray." She nodded and the frown disappeared.

"Yes."

"I like Jesus did that."

"Me too. Do you want to taste the communion with me?"

"Is it blood and bread?" she asked, disgusted by the idea.

"It's juice. To remember about blood. And this tastes like crackers so we remember his body hurt and there was blood when he died."

Apparently she had stretched her mind around as much theology as it could hold.


She climbed onto my lap and tilted her head up to ask, "Are those trees up there pretend ones?"
"Yes," I answered. "To help us remember God made tress."

"Well," Lydia sighed as she thought that through. "I like trees. But just the real ones."

I have no idea what the communion meditation was about, but I wouldn't have missed it for the world.