A story is told of a man who took his little girl to an art gallery. She showed no interest at all until they came to a picture of a tired looking man, knocking and knocking on a door. The picture showed people on the other side of the door -- it looked as if they had no plans to open it. She was hooked.
"Who is that?" she asked her dad. How could she know the question would trouble his heart -- a heart that was wrestling with deep questions.
"It's Jesus," he heard himself say with a slight edge to his voice.
A pause, and then: "Won't they let him in?"
Unease began to grow in the man, but he could hardly brush her off, so he quietly said: "No they won't let him in."
Quick as light, she asked: "Is he bad?"
And he shot back just as fast: "No! He isn't bad."
Faster still, she demanded: "Well, then, why won't they let him in?"
Now he was really uneasy. He'd had enough, and as he gently but firmly walked her away from the picture, he heard himself say in a tone too terse: "How do I know?" She sensed the tension and said no more, but every now and then, big, dark, round eyes glanced at him and then in the direction of the portrait. She knew he knew something he wasn't telling her.
At supper no word was said about it, but the eyes kept talking. After supper she got ready for bed, and with pajamas on and with toothpaste still around her mouth, she climbed up on his lap and hugged his neck longer than usual. Then she kissed him, headed for the bedroom, stopped, turned, and said: "We'd let him in, wouldn't we?"
-David
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