A lesson sharper than scissors

I confess. I stole the scissors ... Grandma's scissors. They were in her crayon box that she kept for the grandchildren, and I was six years old. They fit my small hand perfectly, and I could cut anything. I could make all sorts of shapes, and I could also make paper chains. If only the scissors were mine....

Suddenly they were mine. They were in my shorts' pocket. If I stood straight, they did not pierce into my leg. No one knew.

That night I could not sleep. It seemed like the middle of the night, but was probably between 9 and 10 in the evening. I had to confess. How could I be such a terrible, horrible, awful person to steal scissors from my own Grandma? I needed to call her right then and confess. Mom told me to go back to sleep, though, and we would call in the morning. It was a very long night. It was the longest night, and I was such a horrible person. I needed to confess.

In the morning I dialed the number. "Aye," Grandma answered the phone. "Grandma, I stole your scissors. It's Barbie, and I stole the scissors from the crayon box."

"I am proud that you called me," she said. "Keep the scissors. They are yours."

I still have the scissors in my sewing box. They no longer work, so I no longer use them; but I keep them to remind me of the power of forgiveness.

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