The Applause of Heaven - Max Lucado [25]
Some would rather die than admit it. Others admit it and escape death.
"God, I need help."
So the thirsty come. A ragged lot we are, bound together by broken dreams and collapsed promises. Fortunes that were never made. Families that were never built. Promises that were never kept. Wide-eyed children trapped in the basement of our own failures.
And we are very thirsty.
Not thirsty for fame, possessions, passion, or romance. We've drunk from those pools. They are salt water in the desert. They don't quench-they kill.
"Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness....
Righteousness. That's it. That's what we are thirsty for. We're thirsty for a clean conscience. We crave a clean slate. We yearn for a fresh start. We pray for a hand which will enter the dark cavern of our world and do for us the one thing we can't do for ourselves-make us right again.
"Mommy, I'm so thirsty," Gayaney begged.
"It was then I remembered I had my own blood," Susanna explained.
And the hand was cut, and the blood was poured, and the child was saved.
"God, I'm so thirsty," we pray.
"It is my blood, the blood of the new agreement," Jesus stated, "shed to set many free from their sins."'
And the hand was pierced, and the blood was poured, and the children are saved.
for they will be filled.
CHAPTER 10
LIFE IN THE PITS
I took my two oldest daughters to Sea World recently. My wife was out of town, so Jenna, Andrea, and I went to spend the day watching the dolphins dip, the walruses waddle, and the penguins paddle.
We had a great day. Hot dogs. Ice cream. Stuffed whales. Toys, toys, and toys. The girls know their dad is a pushover for a thirteen-letter "Pleeeeeeeease." I should have known better. The average interest in amusement park memorabilia is twelve minutes and thirty-two seconds. Then it is, "Daddy, can you hold this? It's too heavy."
"Now, I told you not to buy it if you couldn't hold on to It.
"Pleeeeeeeease."
So by the end of the day I was carrying two pen-andpencil sets, one set of sunglasses, an inflated penguin, a shark's tooth (complete with shark), a life-sized stuffed version of Shamu the killer whale, six balloons, and a live turtle. (OK, I'm exaggerating; there were only five balloons.) Add to that the heat, the rash from getting splashed with salt water, and the Eskimo Pie that melted down my shirt, and I was ready for a break.
That's why I was glad to see the plastic ball pit. This one activity is enough to convince you to keep your season pass current. It's a large, covered, shady, cool, soothing pavilion. Under the awning is a four-foot-deep pit the size of a backyard pool. But rather than being filled with water, it is loaded with balls-thousands and thousands of plastic, colorful, lightweight balls.
In the center of the pit is a sort of table with holes through which blow jets of air. Kids climb through the pit, grab balls, place them over the holes, and "Whee!"-up fly the balls.
The greatest part of the pit is the parents' area. While the kids roll and romp in the balls, the parents sit on the carpeted floor next to the pit and rest.
My oldest daughter, Jenna, did great. She dove in and made a beeline to the table.
Three-year-old Andrea, however, had a few difficulties. As soon as she took one step into the pit, she filled her arms with balls.
Now, it is hard enough to walk through the waisthigh pit of balls with your arms spread to keep your balance. It is impossible to do it with your arms full.
Andrea took a step and fell. She tried to wrestle her way up without releasing the balls. She couldn't. She began to cry. I walked over to the edge of the pit.
"Andrea," I said gently, "let go of the balls, and you can walk."
"No!" she screamed, wiggling and submerging herself beneath the balls. I reached in and pulled her up. She was still clutching her armful of treasures.
"Andrea,"