Hoppin' With Jesus

It was one of those times when you feel that little click in the back of your parental conscience:  now this is one of those teaching moments.

Mac had discovered a cricket.  One of those nasty little things I used to feed to my pet Bearded Dragon.  But he was clueless to their nastiness, and thrilled by their ability to hop.  Especially when touched.

"Wook, Mom!  Buggie hoppin so high!  Woah!"  And he proceded to touch the bug, laugh, hop after it, and touch it again.  The game lasted about thirty seconds before I heard an, "Oops!" followed by a quiet, "Oh, no."

I walked over to investigate, and Mac was staring at the bug.  "Mom, hims leggie fallin' down."  Sure enough, the thing was in pieces. 

"Oh honey, he's dead."

Mac stared at me for a moment, and then looked back at the bug.  "Raaawr!" He said.  No reaction from the bug.  "Raaaaaaawr!"  He said louder.  My motherly heart did a little flip flop as I recognized the same rawr he uses to wake Dad up when he "dies" while wrestling.

"Buddy," I told him, "He can't wake up any more.  He is just gone."

He started to cry.

I happened to notice my camera on the couch right next to him as I moved in to comfort him ... so ... I snapped a picture.

I scrambled to think of a three-year-old version of my life-after-death beliefs, and merely ended up saying, "Don't worry.  The buggie can't hop with us any more, but he's hoppin with Jesus and Grandpa Gunn."

I re-said that same thing in a couple of different ways, and he seemed to feel a little better.  We decided to take the buggie outside to rest behind the palm tree and gave him a fond farewell.

Later that day, when we walked by the picture of Christ hanging upstairs, Mac said, "There's Jesus.  Jesus and the buggie goin hoppin together."

And you know what, I'll bet they are.