It was a dream. My children were small again, perhaps, 5, 6 and 10, still innocent and unmarred by the world, still safe in the confines of the home we provided for them.

Danny and I however, were as we are today, in our early 50s, with the experience of our years still intact.

Somehow, as the dream progressed, my subconscious realized that I was dreaming, but I was allowed the opportunity to embrace the children, one more time, in their innocence. As I wrapped my arms around Lisa and kissed her cheek, I began sobbing, knowing that I had to let them go, that this dream, as sweet and as wonderful as it was, had to end. They would go on to live their lives, to be wounded by the world and, sadly, to inflict wounds as well. In truth, of course, they already had. Waking to that reality was unavoidable.

Reaching full consciousness, I found myself sobbing still. Poor Danny, waiting at the coffee table, unaware of how I had awakened, was unprepared for the sobs that would not abate. And the more I tried to explain my deep sadness, the more I wept. Not quiet little tears easily wiped away, but deep, gut-wrenching sobs, reserved only for those that mourn.

It is bittersweet, in the retelling and in the remembering, because I remember so well their innocence. I can see them running inside from the summer sunshine, smelling like the sun itself, building an enormous snow fort, entertaining themselves for hours on end building high towers with discarded lengths of lathe.

I can see them yet, coming out of the bathroom in their pajamas, showing off their pearly whites -- providing evidence that they had brushed their teeth as directed -- followed by minty kisses and bedtime prayers. Had I known how short those days would be when measured against all of the days of my life, I suppose I would have cherished them all the more, though I thought I cherished fully what I held then. Had I understood more fully the coming storms that would assail them, would I, could I, have done more to shelter them longer in the safe, sane walls of home?

Have I idealized their childhoods? Of course I have. It is a prerogative of parenting. A generous measure of mercy, and an ample supply of grace are afforded to all parents. After all, they were only children then. They meant no real harm in the mischief they made. It was all a part of growing up, of maturing, of learning.

The child inside of me wonders if the Lord God carries those same memories of me. He who knows the end from the beginning, does he sometimes look back with sadness for that which was lost, that which can never be reclaimed? And, being God, does he sometimes look forward with sadness to the consequences of the actions I choose today, knowing full well the price those choices will one day exact?

How wonderful it is to realize that God sees believers as those who have been given the opportunity to become "children of God." And, being the loving parent he is, he too lays aside our mischief and casts our confessed sins as far as the east is from the west, using each day to grow us up, to mature us, to teach us what it is to be a child of the living God.

Train a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not turn from it. Proverbs 22:6 (NIV)

Things you won't see in heaven: tear stains