The Building of Rosie’s House
“I—I didn’t do it,” Rosie stammered. She dropped her eyes from Irene’s sad face and looked at the floor instead. Pieces of broken glass lay in a pile under the dresser where she had quickly shoved them that morning. But she couldn’t tell her big sister that; she wouldn’t ever.
“Oh, but how could it have fallen?” Irene asked, looking from Rosie to the remains of her beautiful blue-flowered pitcher. Rosie lifted her shoulders in a shrug, but her conscience pricked her hard. Irene had bought that water pitcher at the antique store only last week and it had cost her twelve dollars.
“I’m sorry it broke,” she managed to say, and before Irene could ask her another question, she slipped out the door and ran outside.
Though Rosie tried to enjoy playing with her little brother and sister, she could not. Every little bang or call made her jump and sent her heart into a flutter. What if someone had seen her when she had stepped on the dresser this morning and knocked the pitcher off? Irene would be terribly upset when she found out and Dad would discipline her. And she would have to pay for it—twelve whole dollars. Rosie only had ten saved in the little brown box on the shelf.
It was when Emma and Karl were put down for their naps and she was sitting in the chicken coop alone that Rosie thought of the lesson. Sister Margaret had told all the little children in her Sunday school class about the houses we build. What was it that she had said? “If you build with lies and hate and selfishness your house will crash. If you build with love and truth and right, you will have a house that will last.”
Rosie thought of the straight good bricks that had stacked up well, but the crooked ones hadn’t made a good wall at all. And a lie is a bad brick, she thought. But how can I tell them? It would be so hard, and what would Daniel think of her? He thought she always told the truth.
But Rosie knew she hadn’t. Many times she hadn’t. Rosie looked at the chickens and tried not to think. Count the different colors—one, two, three… five with black and white specks. And there were six red, but two had black on their chins and one was a rooster with a green tail. There had been another rooster, gold and orange, that had been Daniel’s favorite pet. He didn’t know what had killed it, but Rosie did. Maybe not telling was as bad as a lie. She bit her lip and thought hard. She would be a good girl and tell the truth. She must, she must.
“Ro-o-sie! Where are you?” The call from the house brought Rosie’s mind back quickly.
“At the chicken house!”
“I need some eggs. Are you collecting them?” Mom’s voice sounded closer. Rosie jumped up quickly, sending a friendly red hen squawking away.
“Yes,” she said, ducking into the dim shed. Well, she was now, anyway. “I’ll bring them!”
It took less than a minute to snatch the eggs from the four nests and put them in her coat pockets. Rosie was careful to keep them from cracking together as she walked to the house. But the thoughts in her head wouldn’t stop. You’re building with another broken brick, they said. That was a lie, and so was the time you blamed— “Oh, be quiet!” Rosie said fiercely under her breath. She hurried up the steps and into the house.
“Does anyone know how Irene’s pitcher broke?” Dad asked after prayer had been said at supper. Dad and Mom looked around the table at all their shaking heads, but they seemed to look hardest at Rosie. Her heart jumped into her throat, but suddenly she thought of something to say.
“Maybe it was the cat—Emma might’ve let her in,” Rosie suggested. But before anyone could ask about it, there was a knock at the door and soon the topic was forgotten.
But as Rosie lay in her own snug bottom bunk that night, she could not forget. The broken pieces of glass glittered in the moonlight when she opened her eyes. Shutting them tight, she tried to remember a nice story, but she could only think of the foolish man that built his house upon the sand. She turned over. The bed seemed to sink under her like sand and she could imagine the waters coming and washing her away. She knew that God hated liars. But what could she do?
Rosie buried her face in her pillow and felt the tears wet her cheeks. All she could think of was the naughty things she had done and how many untruths she had said. What would Jesus think of her? Then she remembered that Jesus already knows everything. She seemed to see His sad, sad face. It was the face on the cross in Grandpa’s Bible-story book, with thorns poking His head and the blood running down. All of a sudden Rosie realized why He was so sad. He didn’t want her to do wrong and build a broken house. He loved her and wanted her to be happy.
“Oh, dear Jesus,” Rosie said, clasping her hands in front of her face. “Oh, help me! I am so bad and I told a lie—lots of lies, but I’m so sorry. Please help me.” Then as she lay there, still in the dark room, she remembered that Jesus died to take away our sins and give us clean hearts. “And take away my bad heart and—and give me a white heart. I want to do right and obey.”
Then Rosie seemed to see Jesus’ hand pulling her out of the pile of broken bricks. “I’ll help you build a good house,” He seemed to say. A happy, happy feeling filled her heart and she whispered, half aloud, “Oh, thank you, Jesus! Amen.” For a few minutes she lay looking out at the bright moon and thinking of Jesus building, just like her father built houses, strong and tall. A house on the rock.
But you must tell Irene and the others that you are sorry for lying to them, a voice whispered in her head. Rosie felt a bit afraid of that, but she folded her hands and said, “Dear Lord, help me.” There was a creak in the bed overhead. She would tell Irene if she was awake.
“What is it, Rosie?” Her older sister’s voice sounded sleepy, but her hand reached out gently when Rosie crawled up beside her.
“I—I have to tell you. I broke your pitcher this morning.” Her voice felt like a mouse’s whisper, but Irene squeezed her arm. She had heard.
“Are you mad at me?” Rosie asked with a quaver. “I’m very sorry… and I’ll give you all my money in my money box, and two dollars more when I get them.”
“Oh, Rosie, it’s all right, I forgive you,” Irene said quietly. “But why did you tell me tonight?”
Rosie gulped, and then said, “Jesus is going to help build my house now. I prayed and said I was sorry, but He said I had to say sorry to you, too.” Irene answered that with a kiss and a warm hug.
Soon Rosie was curled up snugly once more. Tomorrow morning I’ll tell the others, she thought with a peaceful sigh. Jesus will help me if I ask Him.
