Photo by Kaboompics .com on Pexels.com
Most likely you have observed kids in a sandbox, or on a playground, building their “spot” and having to move over for a sandbox bully. I recall the neat sandbox my daddy built for us surrounding a maple tree in our back yard. I was a bit too old to claim my own turf there, but enjoyed watching my little sister and brother playing with neighborhood kids. Unfortunately, the kittens that managed to escape the neighborhood dogs, car engines and tires, would also move in on the sand to – um, sort of claim their territory…yes, I know, yuck. But the little kids didn’t mind. In fact, as a rule kids will concede after a sidewise look or mild resistance (just to be sure) when a more dominate personality moves in and wants that spot for himself. In the sandboxes of life, the bully has more weight, more money, or just more presence. At the least, it is inconvenient; at the most, it is life-changing.
Kids are truthful, humble and often helpless, powerless. It’s when we feel the powers moving our world that the kid in us wants to come out. We want to stomp and cry; but the adult in us knows better. We know that the playing field isn’t always level.
Growing up, the playground expands, with more at stake, like perhaps class standing, career positions or potential spouses. Still dealing with competition, someone trying to go”one-up”, it’s common to still be finding ourselves or our positions in life. In those younger years the sand boxes are more plentiful and there are more fish in the sea. After a time, you think it’s all worked out; your bullies have found other callings, and peers have come to understand or accept each other’s turn and place in line. Comradery forms and you find enjoyment rooting for each other. Then. Then, someone drops in from another planet, plowing a new furrow, blasting your turf, only now the sand castles are worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, and roots are growing with families involved instead of just you. It is more. Much more than someone moving your furniture in the night, it’s more like they’ve moved your house – literally – right out from under you. These bullies invading your sandbox aren’t just flexing muscle. They are pushing, kicking mounds, telling you to go with it or get thrown into the gulley, you and your bicycle. They have machismo and money. These playing fields are the real thing, making the childhood days seem of little importance. In reality though, if you’re the child whose tear streaked face endured the bully’s slap, and the terror of losing your sand castle, then you know the significance at any stage of life. It is a fact of life indeed, that all playing fields are not level.
As adults, we eventually come face to face with those uneven levels. Our adult sized sandbox where we’re just minding our business and doing life, paying taxes, raising responsible citizens, living up to the motto of leaving a place better than we found it – these places we have invested blood, sweat and tears into – are Just. A. Speck. A dot on a map in the universe, it is property of a republic; a republic in which we’ve been proud to be a part. That playground we thought belonged to our kindergarten class until we grew up to be second graders and learned differently, is only ours for a moment of eternity. A speck; a moment in the whole scope of world events.
You wake up one day and realize there are bullies in the republic too, who seem not to have regard for “by the people, for the people”. Of course, that depends on which people you are. You begin to realize once again how small you and your sand castles are; helpless once again, you must find a new sandbox. Until two or three, again, want to, oh let’s say, build a road through your playing field. That’s when it is SO important to know – and HERE is our consolation – that they all eventually get their ‘come uppings’. Not for the sake of revenge at all, but that eventually the playing field IS even. There is one sovereign boss to whom we will all answer; and what He has in store for those who are His, well, in the whole scope of world events, our plights just shrink; not less important to us, but of less priority. Then we must ask ourselves: one, does this affect my relationship with the Father, the Creator of my sandbox and all others? Only if I allow it to change me. Then, secondly, does this change who I am (without my permission) or Who God is? Most assuredly not!
Friends, neighbors, our hearts are with you. Many of us have lived under the shadow of threat from year to year, not knowing exactly how to plan and proceed. Dodging the bullet once doesn’t mean it’s our playground for keeps. As long as there’s life, there’s change. And eventually my cheese will be moved; so hopefully I will not trust in the cheese, but wholly lean on Jesus’ name, and I shall not be moved. My sandbox and my friends and foes will all move in and out; I may relocate, but I – who I am, a child of the King, will not change. For HIS eternal kingdom, is not on an earthly ground, but a spiritual one. All the powers of earth and beyond cannot uproot the Kingdom, the Spirit nor the love of God.
When we get to go in for supper with our big brother, Jesus, we won’t even remember the sandbox. The feast and the mansion where it’s served will be awesome beyond words, and I have the Boss’ word on it. God sees His kids in the sandbox, dries their tears and lovingly assures them they will be fine; that they will recover and perhaps even greater things are in store for them. Greater and better things may indeed await where you next fill your sand pail.
The writer of Hebrews was inspired to tell us “For this One has been counted worthy of more glory than Moses, inasmuch as He who built the house has more honor than the house. For every house is built by someone, but He who built all things is God. …but Christ as a Son over His own house, whose house we are if we hold fast the confidence and the rejoicing of the hope firm to the end.” (Hebrews 3: 3-4, 6 NKJV) I think he meant there’s only one sandbox we need to be concerned about building in, because it belongs to Jesus Christ, and as the owner, He lets us stay until it’s time to go home.
Dreary describes the weather today, Easter Sunday, with another cold Kentucky rain. Memories flit through my mind of sunny breezy days with young children running through grassy tufts, peering into shrubs and up the downspouts. Baskets of brightly colored eggs swing on their arms; plastic eggs with coins or jelly beans rattling inside, some hard boiled eggs dyed and decorated the day before and some cellophane-wrapped marshmallows. I never have understood the connection between egg-laying rabbits and the resurrection of Christ. Nor do I get the connection between baby chicks that were dyed pastel colors and curly paper grass in a basket. Still, I did all of it. From brand new patent leather shoes to a pair of white gloves, my memories run strong in the wake of Easters gone by. 
As you may guess from the title, I’ve been to the garden this morning. Inspired by the quiet, I sang “I Must Tell Jesus”, and let the burdens of my heart roll on down the bean rows. If you’re a gardener I’ll bet you wonder as you pick, ‘now who would like a few of these’, or ‘where can I share those?” Sharing is the BEST product of a garden. Today I choose to share more than the produce.
Trisha's Coffee Break 