The other day, my son and I took a walk. He wasn’t his usual chatty self–it turned out he was coming down with a cold–in fact, he was a bit of a grump. I kept trying to start conversations but he’d shut them down. I kept trying to hold his hand but he’d yank it away. After a while, he started walking on people’s yards instead of the sidewalk.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“We’re sliced apart,” he said. “We’re sliced apart and we’re never going to heal.”
When I was a kid, we lived down the street from our local pastor. Despite some of his congregation’s hesitations about the holiday, he absolutely loved Halloween.
I don’t remember how he decorated his house or if he ever wore costumes. I don’t remember what kind of candy he passed out. I remember two things about Pastor John’s house on Halloween night: he always looked delighted to see us, and he always made us do a trick before we could get a treat.
At first, the idea of performing on his front doorstep was terrifying. Should I tell a joke or sing a song? What if I wasn’t good enough? What if he gave me a rock instead of candy like those horrible adults in It’s The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown?