Here is a thought:

If God loved us, wouldn't he interfere?

If I were running toward a cliff, wouldn't you tackle me before I died?

If you kept me from running toward the cliff by force, however, I would consider you controlling. I would not consider you a friend or loving.

So maybe that's an answer.

Here is something I wrote a few years back when I was teaching. I hope I can remember it now:

Back at school, raising my voice, repeating lessons, repeating, repeting, grabbing for coffee, choking down a sandwich between the office and the classroom, rainy recess, kids stay in, trying to stay calm while getting work done at my desk with 24 voices yelling, fingers poking at me, tripping over kids, "teacher?" "teacher?" "TEACHER!" discipline, send them to the office, confiscate recess, unexpected birthday party, not enough cookies to go around, sit down, pay ATTENTION, line up, go home, read over their papers . . . read a paper by H . . .

H, so quiet and obedient, works diligently even when she can't see the board well, raises her hand patiently, listens to the lessons intently . . . H wrote: "I had a hard Christmas. I lost my cat. I miss my cat a lot."

If any one of these children were my own, I would cherish every moment with them. I would give anything to know what goes through these young minds just now experiencing the world as a place of challenge, fear, and sometimes sorrow. Just now, they are discovering the beauty of learning, the life and dimensions of a book, the thrill of a problem solved, the brilliance of understanding, the depths of friendship and the birth or loyalty. I have glimpses all day. The most beautiful glimpses of their expanding minds are usually at the times I am expected to give stern reproach and direct them back to the communal lesson. If only once I could see the potential of these children who are in my care everyday, I would be satisfied. Who are they really? What are their struggles? What is worrying them right now? What will they tell their shrink in forty years? What will they tell their kids about their childhood? Who will they be?

How will they remember me?