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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required On a lovely Sunday morning now that winters turned to spring, I sit at my kitchen table listening to the blackbirds sing. Warmth filters through my window from the rays of morning sun, so while I drink my ‘cuppa’ I think of jobs that must be done. The lawn is looking straggly from uneven winter growth; my spoutings’ filled with leaves from a sheoak that I loathe. Chickweed swamps the garden where the annuals ought to grow, and the roses all need pruning, and should have been weeks ago. Now I’ve finished breakfast I must give myself a shunt, and gather tools and mower for the cleanup out the front. But the thought of wasting Sunday pulling weeds and mowing lawn, tends to make me pretty grumpy on this pleasant Sunday morn. And when a prickle from the roses penetrated in my thumb, I cursed and swore a barrage that is blasphemy to some, especially for the little girl who is walking past my gate, and knowing that she heard me there’s a need to compensate. I asked her what she’s doing and she turned to me and said, She’s walking home from Sunday school with her Bible that she read. And right now she’s reading where, Jonah’s swallowed by a whale, then God stepped in and saved him - allowing Jonah to prevail. I laughed and said, “I think the Bible is telling you a tale. How could a man keep living in the belly of a whale?” “Well, when I’m in heaven I’ll ask Jonah” the little girl replied, so I continued with my questioning, and this time I implied … With a s and strong arrogance, I tried to catch her out. “What if Jonah isn’t up in heaven?” Are seeds I sowed of doubt. The little girl stared back at me, and in a voice that’s soft but grim, “If Jonah isn’t up in heaven, it will be you who’s asking him”.
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