Lambs of God

So, Saturday afternoon, there was a knock on the front door. When I answered it, about a half dozen young girls stood on the porch with plastic bags in their hands.

"Would you care to donate some canned goods to the food bank?" one of them asked.

"Sure," I said. "Hold on."

I went and fetched a couple cans of beans and some pears. I brought them back and put them in one of the bags. I thought I had done my good deed for the weekend, and that my transaction with these young philanthropists was complete. But, no.

Another youngster piped up through her braces. "Is there anything you'd like us to pray for you for?"

I think I did a Scooby Doo, "Hrrr-uh?" Quickly recovering, I mumbled, "Uh, no, thanks."

But, she wasn't done. "Do you know where you'll go when you die?"

This time, a Shaggy, "Zoinks!" Followed by, "No, I don't."

She had me, she thought. "Would you like to know?"

I looked at her, as kindly as possible, and said, "You can't know, and I really don't want to talk about this with you. Thanks."

And, they turned and left. Leaving me disturbed for several minutes. I felt like somehow, these proselytizing babies were being used by someone. Had I been conversion-missioned by a twelve year old? Was I supposed to engage in cosmological, philosophical, spiritual, dogmatic, ecclesiastical, and eschatological discourse with a child? Whose idea was that? It made me feel creepy, but not because of anything I did. I felt creepy about whomever organized that little children's crusade dressed up like a charitable excursion.

I mean, I'm just saying.