The Kind of Father He Is

The castle was mangled. With just a glance, you could tell it was bad. The main gate was completely exposed. The chains that once lowered the intimidating drawbridge were now severed. The drum tower, which had weathered the most obvious destruction, had its battlements crushed -- so crushed that you could almost recreate in your head the sound it must have made the moment the blow came.

This thing must have been thrown down the stairs, I thought to myself. It was too obvious. Aside from its appearance, the wooden castle I held in my hands had been lying just a few feet from the last step leading down to the basement --the basement which functions as the kids' main play area.

Yeah, for sure, this thing was tossed down these steps, I said to myself again, not wanting to believe it was true. So I called for the kids and asked them.

"Did you throw the castle down the stairs?"

"Yes, we did," volunteered the five-year-old spokesman.

"What? You threw the castle down the stairs?" I stammered back, examining the toy closer now, noticing the bent piano hinge. "You threw it down? How many times?"

"Four or five," the spokesman answered, more sheepishly this time.

I still couldn't believe it. These kids are savages. Animals.

[Read the rest of the article at Desiring God.]