He was always there.

In the laughter and innocence of a child, in the seeds planted in the fertile soil of a young heart.

He was always there offering a subtle sense of peace, soothing and calming when the world seemed out of control.

She didn’t know His name, but that day, running in the grassy fields of rural Michigan with her neighbor, Lisa, she learned of Him for the first time, and the encounter would never fade from her mind.

“I hate my mother!” 6-year-old Lynda told her with a petulant stomp. Her friend’s shocked and concerned reaction stopped her in her tracks.

“Oh, Lynda. You should never say you hate your mother! God says to love your mother and father. It’s one of the Ten Commandments.”

“Honor your father and mother.” This is the first commandment with a promise: If you honor your father and mother, “things will go well for you, and you will have a long life on the earth.” Ephesians 6:2-3

Lynda had never heard of the Ten Commandments. It reminded her of the classroom rules the teacher wrote on the chalkboard at school. Mrs. Brown would read them out loud in a stern voice, tapping each one with her pointer that could easily be used to whack your back legs if you broke a rule, like getting out of your seat. But, this rule sounded OK because it was about love. She hoped this God didn’t have a stern voice like Mrs. Brown, but a gentle voice, like Mrs. Smith. She loved Mrs. Smith and her little flower garden she’d planted by the playground that she let you help with at recess and after school. But, she trusted her best friend and knew she would never lie to her.

She didn’t really hate her mother. She loved her mom and missed her dad terribly while he was gone in the war. She watched the TV newsman, Walter Cronkite, every night to try to catch a glimpse of her daddy over in Vietnam. She was just mad because her brothers were allowed to be in the Cub Scouts, but her mom said no to her joining the Brownies even though she was finally old enough.

“It’s just not fair!” Lynda pouted, picking a long blade of grass and wrapping it around her finger as they continued walking out to the old barn behind Lisa’s grandpa’s farm. They loved to swing on the rope and land in the hay, even though they were warned it was dangerous.

“Did she say why?” her friend prodded gently.

Sighing, Lynda mumbled that her mom couldn’t afford it with her dad gone to war. She had to work to pay the bills and buy groceries. She hated admitting it because she sensed that Lisa’s family didn’t have to worry about things like food and bills and paying for the Brownies and Cub Scouts.

Wise beyond her six years, Lisa tried encouraging her.

“You know she’s doing the best she can. She loves you and God loves you,” she said, smiling that radiant smile that drew everyone to her. Lynda loved the way the wind blew her long, blonde curls around her face. She’d always wanted her hair long and curly like that. Her own hair was short and mousy brown, which made her think of Ramona the Pest, who longed to have curls, too, and got into trouble for pulling a lock of the girl’s hair who sat in front of her just to see it bounce back.

Lisa reached out and took hold of Lynda’s hand and pulled her along the well-worn path they’d made through the grasses, Black-Eyed Susans, and Sweet Peas.

“Let’s go pick some wildflowers for your mom and my grandma!”

Lynda looked around at the wide open field she knew drew the mice that had relay races across her attic at night, which made her and her little brother, David, giggle and her mother squeal in terror. She laughed at the thought and decided that this God Lisa believed in was a pretty good artist to have painted such a beautiful place for them to play.

She tucked that thought away as she nodded and skipped off with her friend, and like the wildflowers, Lisa had planted the seeds of God’s love in her heart.