LEGOs

There once was a boy who just wanted to write.

He wanted so badly he stayed up at night.

Thinking, he thought all the thoughts he could think,

And he wanted to write them as fast as a blink.

He wrote lots and lots, but never enough,

For his writing could never keep up with the stuff.

His neurons were quick, but his fingers were not,

And his thinker got lost keeping up with his thought.

Ideas were all over, but time was too short,

And dreamers are not the self-disciplined sort.

So he dreamed and he wrote, but the dreams were too large,

And soon the poor boy was no longer in charge.

For his thoughts flew all over, concocting great tales

And stories and worlds full of ships and of sails

And of dragons and villains and heroes and love

And of danger below and of hope from above.

The thoughts and the stories grew faster than flowers.

The boy watched in horror as minutes and hours

Flew by, with not but a word on the page,

And still the ideas fought for time on the stage.

What made it all worse was the poor boy’s belief.

Ignoring his thoughts offered little relief.

For he had been taught that his time was but short,

And he would one day have to give a report.

He wanted to share his ideas with the rest,

Not just so they could all say he’s the best,

But mostly because they all needed to hear

Of the love that he’d found, of the love that was near.

This pressure to share made him crazy with stress.

His mind was in shambles, his writing a mess.

He struggled and strove, he thought and he fought

With his needing to do and his wanting to not.

Nothing could fix it, this needing to share,

For the boy could not force his big heart not to care.

His mission was left for just him to fulfill.

“If I do not tell them,” he thought, “then who will?”

This thought did not help as he thought that it would,

He could not accomplish the things that he should,

‘Till one day his thoughts grew so big and so dark

That he threw down his pages and ran to the park.

He sat on the swing, and he stared at the sky,

And his thoughts were so sad that he started to cry.

“I’ll never be finished!” he said with a sigh.

“I can’t, and I won’t, so I won’t even try!”

But just as the tears were departing his cheeks,

He heard a small noise he had not heard in weeks,

And he looked, and he saw as he looked all around

A man playing LEGOs, alone, on the ground.

“That’s weird,” thought the boy, and using his sleeve

He wiped off his tears, and he started to leave.

But he didn’t get far in his walking away,

For the man called out pleasantly, “Son, come and play!”

The boy was surprised, and he turned back in shock

To the man who was grinning and holding a block.

The boy was confused by this grown-up with toys,

Which he thought were only for girls and for boys.

Slowly, he walked toward the man and his bricks.

Before him was scattered the messiest mix

Of colors and sizes of LEGOs the boy

Could ever have thought of to use as a toy.

“Dear sir,” said the boy, “I wish I could play,

“But my work and my writing take up all the day,

“And if I quit writing, to tell the good news,

“Then no one will know it, and then we will lose!”

“That sounds exhausting,” the kind man replied.

“It is,” said the boy, and sadly he sighed.

“But surely,” the man added, “Just for a day,

“Your doing can wait so your being can play?”

The boy, still reluctant, sat down with the bricks,

Slowly, he chose a few blocks from the mix,

And the man with the LEGOs erupted with joy,

For long had he wanted to share with the boy.

They played for some minutes, and then for some hours.

The hours flew by in that field full of flowers.

They played and they played, and the stories they told

Were better than any the boy could have sold.

And the shadows grew long, till the LEGOs grew dark.

The boy, with a sigh, stood to leave from the park.

“I wish I could stay, but I’ve wasted the day.

“I’ve finished no work, since I wanted to play.”

But the man smiled warmly, and ventured to say,

“You won’t love to write till you see it as play.

“The pressure to finish will always bring pain,

“But time spent in friendship is never in vain.”

“But sir!” the boy countered. “There’s work to be done!

“There’s no time to waste with these LEGOs and fun!

“The work must be finished! The tale must be told!

“For soon I’ll grow weary and busy and old!”

“But that,” said the man, “Is where you’ve gone wrong,

“And why your great projects are taking so long.

“For you think your gifts are for others to see,

“But I gave you gifts so you’d spend time with Me.”

And then the boy realized with Whom he’d been playing,

And all thoughts of leaving were now turned to staying.

“I don’t understand,” said the boy in the dark.

“Why are you playing alone in the park?”

“I’m here,” said the man, “because I love to be.

“I love to create, for creating is free.

“I laugh and I rest and I work all the day,

“For my play is my work, and my work is my play.

“Most of my kids are quite busy, like you.

“When they don’t have work they don’t know what to do.

“They run and they strive and they try to be good,

“But it’s never enough, because should never could.”

“The ones that do stop for the man in the park

“Are confused and too busy to play until dark.

“Because I don’t need them, they cannot be bothered

“To pause from their mission to play and be fathered.”

The boy sat back down, his body in shock.

His brain felt as slow and as thick as a block.

“So now what?” he asked. “What am I to do?

“How can I play and spend more time with You?

“What of my writing and what of my stories?

“What of my dreams and my missions and glories?

“Are all of my motives just selfish and wrong?

“Should I just give up, since it’s taking so long?”

“Of course not!” the man said, “Your writing is great

“When you love it and don’t put to much on your plate!

“If you can relax and enjoy and unwind,

“The pressure will ease off your tormented mind.

“The LEGOs and writing are one and the same.

“One is not work and the other a game.

“Let go of your mission and learn to have fun.

“Let Me be the Savior, and you be the son.”

The boy nodded slowly, still a bit lost.

“I want to try this way, but what of the cost?

“What of the people, and what of the need?

“What of the good news they’re longing to read?”

“They will,” said the man. “They’ll read what you write.

“They’ll read it so much that they’ll stay up at night.

“You’ll see that my version of working is best.

“You’ll do so much more when you’re doing from rest.”

The man stood and waived, and the LEGOs were gone.

“It’s way past your bedtime,” he said with a yawn.

“But sir!” said the boy, with an ache in his heart.

“I don’t want to leave you, I don’t want to part!”

“You won’t, and you aren’t. You know I’ll be near.

“Keep your heart open and ready to hear.

“Whatever you’re doing, at work or at play,

“I’ll always be with you, no matter the day.”

Then the boy woke; it had all been a dream.

The man and his LEGOs were gone, it would seem.

But now the boy grinned at the pages he’d strewn,

And he lay on his pillow and slept until noon.

And when he awoke, feeling rested and fed,

Inspired by all that the kind man had said,

He gathered his pages and sat on his bed

And wrote down the story that you have just read.

He set down his pen, and he looked at the sky,

And he spoke to the man with a gleam in his eye,

“Wherever I go, and whatever I do,

“I’ll still just be playing with LEGOs with You.”