I think it’s odd that all three of my sons gave their lives to Christ in December during their sixth year of life. My second son Stephen has always been an energetic, loud, constantly moving presence in our house. When my husband and I read the book The Lamb (which presents the gospel) to him at age five, we looked at each other and agreed that he wasn’t ready to give his life to Christ. We could have gone through the motions of it. I’m sure he would have done it. But the timing wasn’t right. He didn’t fully understand the severity of his own sin, his depravity.
We waited six months. It was December. We went through the book again, discussing the chapters. When we got to the end, my husband said, “Something’s not right. He understands the story of the gospel, but he doesn’t show remorse for sin.” So we waited yet again.
A few days later, Stephen had so much anger, he threw something. Our insect collection crashed, with broken glass everywhere. He said he didn’t mean to break the glass.
I just looked at him with horror. “That anger is what murder is made of,” I said gently with tears in my eyes. “And the sad thing is that you can’t help but do evil. This is what Christ died to free you from. There is no way for you to ever live the way you should without Christ in you, the Holy Spirit.”
He wept with such intensity. Tears splashed down his face as he cried out, “I need God!!! Inside me is only bad. I can never do what is right.”
“Do you want to give your life to Christ?”
“Yes! Please! I need Him so badly!”
We went upstairs, and I told my husband, “He’s ready. Today is the day of his salvation.” My husband listened as I told him what had happened. He talked with my son. Then they prayed together, and my son gave his life to Christ. Tears were streamed down my face, and there are just no words to describe my joy.
