Who in the world ever decided that the Wizard of Oz was a children's movie?

I know that some of the movie fare for kids is rough out there these days, but most of it pales in comparison to the mental torment brought to literally millions of children by this perennial classic.

I can tell you one thing for sure: 6-year-olds are not ready for this movie.

I can recall my mom leading my brothers, sister and me into the den to watch "a show that I just know you'll love!"

Moms don't often lie, but when they do you can count on a biggie.

The movie opened simply enough: tranquil black and white farm setting, cute young country girl with dog, nice family. It looked like Fess Parker might come walking up any minute and ask for a glass of lemonade and the young girl's hand in marriage.

But things went south rather quick. One minute our gal Dorothy is swooning about the farm as innocent as a July butterfly and the next, some witch of a lady has hauled off her dog, and a storm the likes of which these young eyes had never seen before descends upon the land and rips their very home from the earth. I already had dug my hands and feet so far down into the crack between the seat cushions and the back of the sofa that it would have taken a backhoe to pry me out.

Fortunately the house comes down intact and Dot emerges unscathed in what appears to be the land of milk and honey. Things are a little strange here, however, and after seeing some of the people who inhabit this land, I remember really hoping she'd head down that brick road sooner than later. The three guys with the lollipops were small and cute and everything, but those faces were not to be trusted. If you asked me, they looked like some of the guys I once saw sleeping in an alley next to the YMCA.

But no one was asking. My two "brave and fearless" older brothers sat mortified on the other side of the room. Randy was grasping the arms of the little green rocking chair so hard that his knuckles had gone white. Jim was trying to look less than bothered, but the death grip he had on the pillow in front of him was giving him away. Younger sister Anne had departed the room about the time the witches feet curled up under the house.

Dad asked if anyone would like some popcorn. No one answered.

Dorothy continued down the road.

Meeting the Scarecrow wasn't so bad -- he was a pretty funny guy -- all loosey goosey and such. He remains my favorite to this day. Probably because I always saw myself as him and my brothers as Dorothy's other two helpers. Next up, of course, was the Tin Man (brother Jim). His rusty predicament didn't scare me so much, but those infernal trees sent me so far down into the sofa that all you could see were my eyebrows.

Can you remember what that voice was like the first time you heard it?

"HEY LITTLE GIRL -- WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING WITH THOSE APPLES!

Randy's legs and arms were now locked straight out in front of him and Jim had given up any pretense of bravery. Those damn trees were mad and it was hard to say what they might do next. Of course what they did was the very worst thing they could possibly do -- they started throwing their apples! To this day I'm not sure why this act horrified me so, but it did. The next day on the way to school I walked right down the middle of Wedgedale Ave. in an effort to keep as far away from any trees as possible.

I couldn't go in the woods for months.

Dorothy walked on.

By the time the flying monkeys flew down and carted everyone away to the witch's castle we had already done a pretty good imitation of the meltdown she was about to make famous. Jim and Randy now peeked out only occasionally from behind the sofa. Meanwhile I had buried myself so deep within its springs I had become one with the stale, dusty mattress inside.

But it wasn't the witch or the monkeys or even the trees that rattled us the most. No, what scared us more than all the rest combined was the Great and Powerful Oz, who to this young mind clearly represented someone's vision of God. And it was not a God I liked. He was mean and spiteful and demanding and I hoped with all my heart that the God I had heard professed in my home and at school, (back in "those days"), and at church was the true God. Not this big mean bellowing, smoking head that didn't wish to be bothered, much less asked anything that might require his attention.

I think the greatest relief of the movie for me was not that Dorothy was going to make it home so much as it was "the man behind the curtain" turned out to be just that: a simple man, whose effort to govern his world through fear and terror had finally failed him. He was not the God who ruled the universe. Life could be lived again.

Recently I found cause to consider the "privilege of prayer," and my mind went back to the concept of God as portrayed by the "Wizard." What would life be like in such a world and what in the world have we done to deserve a God as approachable as ours?

Talk to the very creator of the heavens and of time and space and love and all that is real and good?

How? How can this possibly be?

It's just his nature I suppose. He seems to really favor the little guy -- the underdog -- the poor slobs of the world who, so distracted by the trappings around us, don't have a chance in hell of knowing him otherwise.

So he listens -- and gives us the privilege of asking and telling and pleading and crying, and yes even laughing with him.

"Pay no heed to that man behind the curtain," said the wizard, hoping our eyes were elsewhere.

"Cast your hopes and fears and burdens upon me," the God of creation whispers.

What a privilege.