A Grave Mistake

My third pregnancy was a nightmare through and through. I won't bore you with all the details-just know that I spent the first 3 months of that time on the couch. If I so much as moved a muscle I had to run to the bathroom to throw up. I couldn't even keep water down.
Things finally settled down around the beginning of the 4th month. I was able to sit up! Then I was able to stand! After that I began to function again. Cooking, cleaning, and the best part? Being able to interact with my then 5 and 3 year old sons. It felt sooooo good to laugh with them and play and talk to them again. I'd really missed them.
That Thanksgiving Day was wonderful. We were having an unusually warm November-the sun was shining and it was gorgeous outside. So, after dinner we decided to take our little guys for a walk. We were living in an apartment and nearby there was a small cemetery. Somehow that's where our feet led us. My husband was walking through the cemetery, keeping an eye on our 6 year old. He was running around "grave hopping" and reading each and every name and date on every single headstone.
(I should stop here and tell you that our 3 year old son had a slight speech impediment-he couldn't really say his "R's".)

Anyway-while my husband and older son were traipsing around looking at all the tombstones, I was meandering through the cemetary with our 3 year old son, James. I was only half aware of what he was saying; it felt so good to be "up" and "out" again. But, all of a sudden that boy said something that really caught my attention.
We came upon a grave where there was a little cross-it was probably only 12 inches high. James stopped in his tracks and stared at that little cross, a curious exprression on his face. Then he shrugged and said, in his best little Elmer Fudd voice, "Look at dat cwoss Mommy. Jesus wasn't vewy big, was he?"