Sanctuary

Back in those childhood days when summers were forever long, we played neighborhood games on hot afternoons. Our favorite was “Sheepie, sheepie, come home.” The bear hid. The mother stationed herself at one end of the lawn with the sheepies at the other.

The mother called, “Sheepie, sheepie, come home.” The sheepies chorused, “We daresn’t.”

“Why not?”

“There’s a bear behind the bush.”

Whereupon the mother (rather callously, I always thought) called, “Come anyway.” The sheepies bolted across the hazardous lawn while the bear tried to tag as many as possible. Those who made it to mother were safe.

The years passed. I found that childhood, like summers, ended after all. It was time for me to face the world on my own. “I daresn’t,” I cried, “Go anyway,” my mother said. So I dashed into life, encountering bears and learning how to deal with them. But I frequently retreated home where I felt safe and loved.

Now I am the mother, realizing how hard it is to say to my daughter, “Go anyway.” I wait anxiously at home, providing sanctuary, realizing the significance of that eternal sanctuary which awaits us when we have outrun all the bears, and life, like a long-ago summer, is over.—Lael J. Littke, Pasadena, California