The Mercy of a Two-Year-Old

She sat in the pew next to me, occasionally glancing at the first Station of the Cross.

“Who’s that?” She finally asked.

“That’s Jesus.” I told her.

“Oh, Jesus. Yes……and who’s that?”

“That’s Pilate.”

“Yes….Pilate.”

She stared at the image for a while, and then said “Jesus is hurt.”

“Yes, baby, He is.”

“Oooh…Poor Jesus.” She crooned in her baby voice, before cocking her head to the side and stating matter-of-factly “Pilate is hurt.”

I turned around to look more fully at her. “He is?”

“Oh, yes,” she said with her eyes fixed on the villain’s face. “He’s sad and scared. It makes him hurt…..Poor Pilate.”

By then, Mass was over and it was time for us to leave. As we exited the pew, I genuflected and told her “C’mon, Wendy, kneel and say good-bye to Jesus.”

My sweet Wendy-girl (rocking her self-inflicted haircut)

She bent her knees squatting in a toddler-esque curtsy, then ran off after her father. As she was halfway down the aisle, she turned back towards the First Station and waved “Bye, Pilate.”

As she continued galumphing after the boys, I turned to look at Pilate’s face. He did indeed look sad and scared.

“I hope that when you stood before God’s throne, that he was as merciful as a two-year-old.” I told the weary man in the picture.

I grabbed my purse and followed my family. As  I reached the door, I stopped and  glanced back at him over my shoulder, and I  sighed, “I hope, when I stand before Him, that He’s that merciful with me.”