Every happy memory created in childhood is a treasure of time.
Anonymous
We all have those golden memories—especially from childhood, when the world still felt like a place where every dream was just waiting to come true. Back then, life was full of wonder, sticky fingers, scraped knees, and the kind of wide-eyed faith that could move mountains (or at least convince you that your backyard was Narnia).
Now don’t get me wrong—childhood dreams can come true. But as we get older, life teaches us to squint a little harder and maybe bring an umbrella… just in case. One of the truly beautiful parts of my early years was my simple, childlike faith in God. It was innocent little adventures—like the one I share in this story—that quietly planted seeds of belief. Seeds that, after surviving a rather long drought of doubt, eventually bloomed into something strong and beautiful: a deep trust in the God who notices even the sparrows… and listens to the bedtime prayers of little boys.
So join me for another tale—this one a fictionalized version of a real event. Let’s take a stroll down memory lane, with a few chuckles along the way.
My childhood prayer
By J.K.Stenger
I must have been six when I first heard about France. Dad talked about it with Mom. She looked at him with loving eyes, grabbed his hands and said in warm tones, “That’s so lovely, George. I am sure the kids will love going to France.”
France? It sounded worrisome. Like the janitor at my school. His name was France too. Frans Biggelmans, although his name was pronounced slightly different. I was secretly afraid of his mean little eyes and was certain if I’d ever meet him in a dark corner of the school, like the basement or the toilets, I’d be in serious trouble.
So when Dad announced we were going to France, I almost cried.
“Children, we are going to France! It will be fun — the trip of a lifetime.”
“Who is France?” I asked, dread curling in my stomach like a cold snake.
“Not who, silly,” my older brother said with a smirk. “What.”
“That’s right,” Dad chuckled. “France is a country. Like Holland, only… very different. It’s far away. We’ll have to drive for three days to get there.”
Three days? In the back seat? With my brother?
Mom put her arms around me and gently kissed my head. “You don’t have to worry, honey. It’s a vacation. It’ll be fun.”
“Why so far, Dad?”
Dad’s eyes lit up, pleased to share his encyclopedic knowledge of the world. “France is the vacation country of the future. They have French bread, wine, and cheese. Romance is bubbling through the streets!”
I didn’t understand. Cheese and bread we had too. But wine?
“Wine,” Dad explained, “is grape juice — only very different. They even give it to kids at school. Everyone drinks it.”
That sounded promising. At school, we had to drink tepid, slightly sour milk. Miss Gruffelink, my first-grade teacher, insisted on it every day. It was awful. Wine seemed like a welcome upgrade.
But the thought of being stuck in the car for three days, squished next to my mean brother in our musty, hot little Beetle, was far less appealing.
Something had to be done. And since Dad clearly wasn’t open to reason, I decided to take my case to the Higher Court.
That evening, as I knelt by my bed, I brought the matter before God. I was deeply respectful, offering extra prayers and solemn promises. I even included my disliked Uncle Jack in my petitions — the one who reminded me of Frans Biggelmans. That prayer, I think, was a mix of hopeful bargaining and fear.
But my prayer didn’t seem to work.
Because on Monday morning, we were packed up and heading south, toward the Belgian border.
After three long hours, we arrived.
“The border,” my brother whispered.
When I saw the guards in their oversized, menacing uniforms and greasy mustaches, I understood why he whispered. They looked terrifying. But, as it turned out, they weren’t too bad.
Dad rolled down his window.
“Good day, sir… On vacation? No… I don’t need to see your passports. Have fun, sir.”
That was it?
I let out a breath of relief.
But now, we had to cross the Belgian border.
A small man with a round belly raised his hand and scanned our car. When his eyes landed on me, I immediately felt guilty. His gaze was so sharp, I was sure I’d done something wrong.
“Passports,” he said sternly.
Mom rummaged through her oversized handbag — tissues, receipts, a half-eaten candy bar — but no passports.
“George,” she whispered urgently. “We forgot the passports.”
Dad’s face tensed. “Forgot the—? How could you—” He stopped himself, but we all knew what he meant.
The border guard seemed to enjoy the scene. I could’ve sworn I saw a sardonic smile tug at the corner of his leathery face.
He shook his head and said firmly, “Geer mot ommekaere, ger kènt neet wier hier.”
“That’s Flemish,” my brother whispered. “It’s like Dutch… but very different.”
Dad sighed. “We’re not allowed to continue. We have to go back.”
“What about France?” Mom asked. Her eyes lingered on the quaint Belgian houses and the cobblestone road just beyond the checkpoint.
“Forget France,” Dad muttered, annoyed. “We’ll stay home this year.”
And so we turned around.
Three more hours in the car with my brother. But this time, my heart was at peace. God had answered my prayer after all.
France passed me by that year. So did the cheese, the baguettes, and the wine.
But I was happy.
That night, when I knelt beside my bed again, I made sure to thank Father God for listening so well.