Bragging Rights... a Very Short Story

In the summer of 1975, we lived in Anchorage, Alaska. Rachel turned six that summer, and Jon was born in August. Rachel was a precocious little girl. "Spending the night" with a friend, or having one or more overnight at our house was the ultimate fun thing for her. There were several little girls about Rachel's age whose families attended our little church. Sometimes we had sleep-overs involving all of them at once, and sometimes we moms could only handle two little girls at a time.

I remember once when I was babysitting for one of the moms who had an only daughter. She, too, was precocious. I think she was the only one of all Rachel's little friends who could out-talk Rachel. My sewing room in that house opened directly off the living room where the girls were playing that day. I listened vaguely to their chatter, while trying to concentrate on my task at hand. I didn't check on them as long as the chatter remained at an even level with no raised voices or tones of disagreement.

They did well with each other for quite a while. Then, in describing something they were imagining, they began to disagree on exactly how it should be. A mild argument began and slightly raised voices caught my attention.

Here's where my memory has holes in it. I will just repeat the parts of the conversation that I remember:

Rachel:  It's supposed to be right here...blah blah blah...

Stephanie: Nuh-uh! It should be over here... This way... blah blah blah... 

Rachel: No. It needs to be taller.  Blah blah blah. It has to be this way...

"Nuh-uh!" Stephanie's voice was getting higher.

"Uh-huh," Rachel insisted, "this way. Blah blah blah..."

"Nuh-uh!" Stephanie insisted, "This way." (By this time they had my attention, though I hoped they would resolve their points of view and agree without me having to go in there.)

"No, Stephanie," said Rachel, very calmly, as if explaining something to a very young child. "It has to be this way."

"No." Stephanie was equally firm.

"Yes." Rachel was not giving in, not one inch.

"No!"

"Yes!"

Short pause. "Why?" Stephanie's voice had returned to normal.

Rachel seemed pleasantly surprised that Stephanie didn't continue the yes-no argument. She sighed. Then, patiently, as if this would settle the matter: "Because my Dad said blah blah blah..." 

Another short pause, and then Stephanie's equally confident voice: "But my Dad said blah blah ..."

Instantly Rachel replied, "No. My Dad said."

Stephanie: "My Dad said."

Rachel:  "My Dad said... and he's older than your Dad."

 Stephanie paused, seeming to consider which dad was older. Then: "How old is your Dad?"

Rachel, confidently, proudly: "He's thirty-five." In the sewing room I smiled.

Stephanie, instantly: "Well, My Dad is a hundred and fifty thousand, and He knows everything!"

End of argument. Time for me to leave my sewing and go distract those girls with cookies or something they could agree on...

Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could always remember that no matter what our failings and shortcomings, our ignorance, our desires and longings, our Heavenly Father is older, wiser, richer, greater than anyone or anything opposing us?

On the other hand, wouldn't it be even better if we could always remember He loves even those other Selves who might oppose us? And better yet... if we could remember He wants us to bless those other Selves instead of trying to One-Up them?