In his autobiography, Dr. A.J. Cronin tells of a neighboring family called the Adamses. Mr. Adams was an accountant in New York City, but he loved to spend all the hours he could working in his garden at their Connecticut home with his only son, Sammy. When WWII broke out, Mrs. Adams suggested they take a refugee child into their home. Mr. Adams wasn't much in favor of the idea, but he went along with it to please her. The child they received came from an orphanage in Central Europe with the impossible name of Paul Piotrostansilis. Unfortunately, as Paul learned the language of his new family in Connecticut, he also learned to manipulate the truth. He found it easy to steal and do mischief and broke the Adams' hearts many times. He did, however, develop a close friendship with the Adams' little son, Sammy.

One day, Paul, against their specific warning, went swimming in a polluted stream near their home and came back with an infection that brought with it a raging fever. Because of the possibility it might be contagious, Paul was put in a separate room and Sammy was told to stay away from him. Paul eventually pulled through the crisis, but, while he was still sick, one morning the family found Sammy asleep in bed with Paul, the two of them breathing into each other's faces. And sure enough, Sammy caught the disease. The fever raged through him, and only four days later, Sammy died.

Dr. Cronin remembered hearing about the tragedy while away on an extended study leave. He wrote his neighbors, expressing his sympathy for them, telling them that he, for one, would understand should they feel the need to send Paul back, after all the heartache he had caused them. A few months later, upon returning from his leave, Dr. Cronin went next door to visit the Adamses and was surprised to see the same familiar sight of a man and a boy working side by side in the garden. Only this time the boy was Paul.

"You still have him then?" Cronin inquired. "Yes," Henry Adams replied, "and he is doing much better now." "All I can say to you, Paul," Cronin muttered, "is that you're a pretty lucky boy." "Dr. Cronin," Henry interrupted, "you don't need to bother trying to pronounce his name anymore, either. He is now Paul Adams. We have adopted him. He is now the son we lost."

That's the kind of love God has for us. A love that Jesus expresses in the face of threatened death, a love that goes about its business, in spite of the consequences. Love that adopts us as children. Love that makes us citizens of heaven. Love that puts us in our places and gives us our inheritances.