The noise was overwhelming. Bodies pressed together, pushing, reaching, nearly wrenching the box from the man’s hands. The children and even the mothers clamored so ardently over a box of broken toys, pieces of this and that discarded and thrown together to be given away. They yelled and fought as over buried treasure, as if their lives might depend upon it.
How different would my life be like, I wondered, if I clamored after more valuable things as determinedly as these children fought for little plastic treasures of junk? Do I come to God this desperately? Do I fight, no matter the jostling crowd of the world, to receive my fill of what is good: lessons of faith, forgiveness, humility, contentment. He won’t give me the remnants of his grace; he will fill my hands until it is impossible to carry more. At first I wanted to reprimand the children, convince them to hang back and wait patiently. But then, I thought perhaps this is part of what it means to have the faith of a child, to not stand back in politeness while God is offering so much more than discarded playthings. Perhaps clamoring is in order.