Here’s a funny story about a boy I know.
A youngster about the age of ten,
whose peach fuzz moustache wasn’t grown.
By now he knows you can’t do as you please.
He’s getting stronger, learning from other men,
He’s a boy on fire, growing with alarming ease.
That young man is the context of this story.
Please make sure your busy ears are open,
As the lad’s correction reveals a hidden glory:
This boy I know, he’s got a name
He’s fast, fun, and likes to play his games
He’s nothing special, nor obscure
But as a growing child, we can’t say he’s mature
He was asked to watch a toddler
So he obeyed and took the proper posture
He sought to prevent even a bruise
By games and fun, the baby child was amused
Soon the boy became quite anxious
Murmuring crankily for his present status
The baby child was truly a lot of work
The boy didn’t consider baby children as a perk
Eventually, the boy was mad
Wondering where was the baby child’s dad
So the boy ignored his role
Knowing baby children can’t take a stroll
Returning to his favourite games
The boy let the baby child play
But the baby child needed attention
And so began a loud and shrill objection
(Do you know that sound’s increase?)
The boy was mad and much displeased
So he jumped up to calm the baby child
Returning to his play when the scene seemed mild
And so the endless cycle began
Up, down, and back again was the child’s scam
Imagine you are ten years old:
How long would you feel in complete control?
Finally, the boy had had enough
Saying to himself “it’s time to get tough!”
He sat the baby child down and spoke
“Baby child, my frustration has been provoked!”
The baby child stopped and listened
(But you know baby children can’t make commitments)
Just like hearing foreign tongues
The boy’s words was as air passing through lungs
But baby children do not understand
And they don’t comprehend that they offend
And though the boy felt crazy
He couldn’t help but reprimand that baby:
“Stop! Your Dad will be here soon!”
“Try and understand: I’m alone in here with you”
“I can’t clean up your every mess”
“Why, oh why, do you feel the need to stress?!”
Then the boy’s big sister came
Who scolded and put the boy to the shame
She shook her head and knelt by him
And held the babychild (without looking grim)
She explained to her brother, that frustrated young lad
“The baby child doesn’t know better, he isn’t being bad”
“He’s hungry and in need of constant naps”
“You have no earthly right or reason to snap!”
“You were the same way when you were little”
“Yesterday you had a tantrum because your pride was brittle”
“You needed Dad to pick you up off the floor”
“You’ve forgottenyour own needs from before”
The sister brought perspective
And her correction was quite perceptive
Though she was young (only just sixteen)
Her experience answered the moment’s need
That’s a story about a boy who yelled at a baby.
While it may seem obscure or parabolic
Dear Christian, try to understand it plainly.
If you’re born again, your age is not your “age.”
That’s this story’s simple, abiding moral:
Though you’re sanctified, it’s still an early stage.
Our example is our God, eternally good and wise.
And you might be twenty, ten (or five) in Christ,
But you’re still relatively new to life.