You have come to me in your pain.
Your grief.
Your suffering.
You asked if I acted to cause it.
You asked if I acted not ... to prevent it.

I answered you not.

For I want your not knowing.
I want your wonder.
I want the awe you had as a child.

My beloved, where have you put those childhood eyes
The ones as big as baseballs?
Have you tossed them in with your other toys
That you are now too old to play with?

Go! Lift them from the toy box.
Put them back on.
Peer through them,
Through the door of unknowing
And into My Presence
Wrapped in My Comfort.

For you need baseball-sized eyes
And an unknowing heart
To feel the height
And breadth
And depth
Of My Love for you
Which has no end. 

Photo credits: The top photo was taken by one of my daughters. He is my grandson studying the wonders of running water. The bottom one is of my daughter, his mom, with that same sense of awe, about three decades earlier. May your children never lose that sense of wonder and lovingly pass it on to their children.