 |
A long time ago, in rural Michigan, my family and I were members of a small mission church. My wife taught the preschool and kindergarten class. We frequently had family visitors, the grown children of the older parishioners with their children.
One of the families visiting was a service family, Marines. The three children were all redheads, 9, 7, and 5, and were mirror images of their father. On Palm Sunday the class was taught about the Crucifixion, My wife showed the story in a large book, sparing nothing of the cruel details of the sad story. The class sat aghast until the five-year-old redheaded boy, tears streaming down his face and hands clenched at his sides, stood up in rage and shouted, “Where were the Marines?”
|
