Last evening, I enjoyed watching our five year old neighbor ride his tiny motorcycle around and around their property. From my swing on the patio he rode like a pro. I thought to myself, “I can only imagine what it would have been like to have a real motorized toy when I was his age!”
My love for anything automotive goes beyond my earliest memories. When I was a pre-schooler, Mom would drop me at her parents’ home in Lancaster on her way to work at the factory. Grandma and Grandpa Hart lived at the corner of Kanawha and East Main Street in a huge duplex with a massive front porch that stood where Fifth Third Bank is today. I logged hundreds of miles on an imaginary highway system made up of sidewalks that encircled the house. My car had tennis shoes for tires, a stick for a steering wheel, powered by a vivid imagination and PF Flyers. I mimicked to perfection a V8 engine with dual exhaust as I peeled out, shifted into second and slid into third, my tennies squealing in angry protest against the brutal torque of my souped-up V8.
I customized my Radio Flyer wagon, carefully fabricating an operating convertible top using wire from clothes hangers and a discarded bed sheet, with clear plastic from a dry cleaners bag for the rear window. I repurposed small aluminum pie tins from Banquet Chicken Pot Pies into custom hubcaps. Model car paint provided the white wall tires and empty toilet paper rolls wrapped in aluminum foil made perfect exhaust pipes. In the 1950’s, real custom cars in Car Craft Magazine had cool names like “Sweet Thang” or “Lone Wolf.” My little red wagon was christened “Stagger Lee” in homage to Lloyd Price’s Top 40 hit. I knew every word to that song, much to the chagrin of my sainted mother who, upon hearing it, promptly forbade me from ever again singing “that terrible song!” “Stagger Lee shot Billy, oh he shot that poor boy so bad that the bullet went through Billy and it broke the bar tender’s glass.” Mom never really developed a true appreciation for the arts.
Walt Disney understood the importance of imagination; his theme parks resurrect thousands of imagination-dead adults. I’ve been trying to reengage my imagination just like the little boy in me, who didn’t need a theme park but only a stick and sidewalk. We can all color our world through imaginings. To imagine is to hope, and hope is a very Christlike value.
God provides us with this very powerful tool of imagination, the wellspring of hope and faith. When we suppress our tendency to take everything too seriously, and release our child-like imagination, we are transported to a gentler place, a place where the whispers of God’s Spirit can be enjoyed while the adult-in-us bangs at the door of our attention. Childlike imaginings remind us that peace, joy and contentment are found inside ourselves, and never by the circumstances outside.
Imagine that today, even now, you can find peace and contentment! It’s entirely possible, but it won’t happen by adding “Be content” to your multi-task list. Contentment happens when you retreat to a quiet place, where the only sound is the crinkling of your cheeks as your game face morphs into a happy face.
“God can do anything, you know—far more than you could ever imagine or guess or request in your wildest dreams! He does it not by pushing us around but by working within us, his Spirit deeply and gently within us.”
Ephesians 3:20 The Message
Lord, thank You that Your finished work on the cross releases me to experience a light-hearted sense of hope. You offer peace and contentment regardless of the circumstances I encounter each day. Help me to imagine You by my side as I cruise though my day quiet and content in the Father’s love.
Read Ron’s column, Simple Faith, each Saturday on the Faith Page (page 3) of the Lancaster Eagle Gazette, or visit www.lancastereaglegazette.com.