I believed in God immediately and forever in elementary school. The teacher left the class that day for 20 minutes, and my classmates seemed to go crazy. The resulting bacchanalia led to a dislocation in Pasha, a fracture in Sveta and an injured palm in Nikita. The palm was pierced with a pen. Not out of malice, noooo! By chance. I started crying. The teacher later told my parents that I was scared. But I wasn't scared. Somehow, at once, with my whole being, I felt that God exists. Would we all survive on the planet if, even within the same class, the end of the world comes in the absence of an order-forming force? And then I cried with happiness. That there is ONE who tenderly created this world and gave us support. Who preserves humanity and breathes joy, creativity and love into people for so many centuries. Many of us have a thousand claims to the Creator: why war? Why do children suffer? Where is the justice? Do you know what I will answer to this? At one time I had problems with the English language at school. There was no one to help. And I graduated from the Linguistic University with a degree in English teaching with the thought that my children definitely won’t have these problems. And for 20 years now, almost on my knees, I have been begging my children to “learn” the language together. I beg my son for 5 minutes to explain the damn Present Continuous to him. And attempts to speak with them in a “non-native” language always failed. I graduated from music school with two majors: piano and guitar. Has at least one of my four children turned to me with a request to teach them to sing or play? And even if a desire flashed, it was enough for exactly one chord. And, finally. As you know, I am a psychologist with 15 years of experience. I really want my recommendations in the field of psychology to be useful to my children as well as to other people. But every parent knows that his experience and knowledge, from a certain age, in principle cease to exist for children. They themselves have mustaches, and their ancestors are old-fashioned and don’t understand anything about this world. I hold back all my verbal and non-verbal muscles so as not to do educational harm to children. I entrust this to more authoritative persons, for a fee, of course. And my love for children does not dry up because of this. I'm just waiting. I'm waiting for the day to come when they hear me. Something like this. “Such” a comparison, but aren’t we children in relation to God? Doesn’t He tell us how to live, with whom to sail and what language to speak? Doesn’t he offer his shoulders so that we can see more than we see and doesn’t he open his arms to catch us when we fall? We all know what the Father wants from us. The path is clearly written not only by our conscience, which is either dormant or consumed by passions. But it’s easier for us not to see the obvious and deny the understandable. In our grandmother’s yard lived a ruff boy, Timoshka. From an early age he had no father, and he was desperately jealous of his friends who had them. I envied when the boys went fishing with their fathers, and when they “sunbathed” on weekends under old cars. (yes, yes! Back then it was a cherished hobby!), and when together they repaired a rickety fence. The sons readily brought tools, water, rags: they tried with all their might to “serve” their “folders.” The fathers could even give “lyuley” to the tomboys, but they also delighted them with ice cream or even a scooter. Timoshka was ready for anything, as long as he, this father, was there. Timoshka was envious for a year, two... After four, he finally said goodbye to his dream: “I don’t need any father! I’ll get by!” Fortunately, he slammed the door. And the next day, angrily knocking down white dandelions with a rod, he came across a barn. Not even a barn - just a shed. It turned out there was a workshop inside. And the owner's name was Uncle Stepan. We started talking. Word by word, Timofey told Stepan about himself, about his life. Stepan sheltered the boy. From morning to evening Timoshka began to disappear from the workshop. He learned metalworking and carpentry. The guys got along. While falling asleep, Timoshka tasted the incredible word “dad.” One morning Stepan did not come. Timofey stomped around the closed doors and trudged home. It's amazing how