== The Following is a little story that I came up after hearing a debate on "The will of God" and how people attempt to console loss with the idea that some sky daddy has a plan for them.  I am not a professional writer, so forgive me if this doesn't exactly win any awards, but I think the message will be useful enough ==

On a fair spring day she waited at the stop with Mother by her side. In the distance she could see the buss that would take her home, at the moment her coveralls grass stained with her many hours of play. Her eyes starred down the long vanishing point where the tiny vehicle was, so far away it seemed to stand still. Footsteps behind her were drowned out by the interest in the odd optical illusion and how the buss began to slowly grow in size.

"Mary"

The wise tone of an old man caught her by surprise. She turned her head, looking over her shoulder and gripped her mothers hand tightly. Mother looked over at her for a moment, seemingly unaware of the old man's voice. She simply turned her attention back to what she was busy with before.

"You've grown white a bit Mary, Seven years, do you know what happens when your seven?"

Mary remained silent. His kind smile and well groomed snowy beard made her think of Santa Claws, but Santa didn't wore a white suit like the one he had. He looked more like a salesman, he even had a name tag on. It was an odd name, only three letters long and yet the gleam of the sun made it very hard to read across the little gold plate those letters were etched in. The best she could manage of her nervous body was to shake her head.

"The age of reason, the age that little girls and little boys are old enough to know sin", in the background she could hear the engine of the buss now and the urgency to get away from him. The old man was drawing closer, bending one knee to lower his eyes to her level. "Mary, you are a special child, you will be my soldier in coming times and for that you must be strong in the face of loss"

That kind smile never shifted to a grimace or any expression of hate. Without the batting of an eye he pushed Mother forward as the buss slid into place at the stop. Mary did all she could to keep her hand tight around mothers, but an elderly hand grasped her wrist so tight the pain made her fingers slip. Seven year old eyes starring down at her mothers crushed figure, chest pinned under wheel.

Numbness came over her, unaware of the emotion she should feel at the moment other than the threat that was his man in white. With glassy eyes she looked up at his smiling face as he stood up straight adjusting his alabaster tie. Without a word he turned to walk away. In a few days a Priest would tell her something she knew even in that fearful moment, it was God's Will that killed Mother.