On the far edge of a quiet little town, where the pavement thinned out and the streetlights grew scarce, there sat an old cemetery bordered by a rusted iron fence. Inside that fence stood a massive pecan tree, ancient and generous, its branches stretching wide as if they’d been planted long before anyone bothered marking graves.

One afternoon, when the air was warm and the town felt half-asleep, two boys slipped through a gap in the fence with a dented metal bucket. They knew that tree well. Everyone did. Its pecans were legendary.

They worked fast, laughing quietly, shaking branches and scooping nuts until the bucket was full. Once satisfied, they carried it a short distance away and sat down in the shade, hidden from the road.

“All right,” one boy said, tipping the bucket between them. “One for you, one for me.”

He tossed a nut to the left.

“One for you, one for me.”

A few pecans bounced, rolled, and slipped through the grass, coming to rest near the fence.

“One for you, one for me…”

Down the road, a third boy pedaled by on his bike. He wasn’t in a hurry, just riding to ride, when something made him slow down. Voices. Low, rhythmic, coming from inside the cemetery.

“One for you, one for me…”

The boy froze.

He leaned his bike against a fence post and listened harder.

“One for you… one for me…”

His stomach tightened. He knew that voice pattern. He’d heard it before. In church. In stories. In warnings whispered by grown-ups when they thought kids weren’t listening.

His eyes went wide.

He jumped back on his bike and pedaled like the devil himself was chasing him.

Just around the bend, he nearly crashed into an elderly man walking with a cane, each step slow and deliberate.

“Mister!” the boy shouted, skidding to a stop. “You gotta come quick!”

The old man squinted at him. “Slow down, son. What’s got you hollerin’?”

“You won’t believe it,” the boy panted. “The Lord and the Devil are down at the cemetery… dividing up the souls!”

The old man frowned. “Boy, don’t tell stories like that.”

“I’m serious! I heard them! They’re saying, ‘One for you, one for me’ over and over!”

The man hesitated, then sighed. “All right. Let’s go see. But if this is nonsense, I’m giving you a lecture you won’t forget.”

They hobbled toward the cemetery, the boy nearly vibrating with fear. When they reached the fence, they both froze.

“One for you, one for me.”

The old man gripped the iron bars. “Well I’ll be…”

They leaned forward, peering through the shadows, hearts pounding.

“One for you, one for me.”

Neither could see anything. Only the tree, the grass, the fence. The voices continued.

Then, finally, they heard, “That’s it. Now let’s go get the nuts by the fence and we’ll be done.”

The old man didn’t wait for clarification. He dropped the cane and ran faster than anyone in town had ever seen him move, leaving the boy stunned behind him.

Sometimes misunderstanding is funnier than the truth.

Mischief, after all, has a way of finding children wherever they go.

Take Jimmy and Matty, for example.

Ages eight and four, they were legends in their town. If something went missing, broke, exploded, or mysteriously caught fire, odds were good Jimmy and Matty had been involved. Their parents didn’t even bother asking anymore. They just sighed and started cleaning up.

Eventually, their mother heard about a preacher known for setting kids straight. A man with a voice like thunder and a stare that could pin wallpaper to a wall.

Desperate, she made an appointment.

The preacher agreed to see the boys—but one at a time.

Matty, the younger one, went first.

The preacher sat him down in a big wooden chair, leaned forward, and boomed, “Son… do you know where God is?”

Matty’s mouth fell open.

No sound came out.

The preacher frowned and tried again, louder. “Where is God?”

Matty stared, frozen.

The preacher stood, pointed a massive finger, and thundered, “WHERE. IS. GOD?”

Matty screamed, bolted out of the room, ran all the way home, and dove into his closet, slamming the door.

Jimmy found him minutes later, shaking and pale.

“What happened?” Jimmy asked.

Matty gasped, eyes wide. “We’re in HUGE trouble.”

“Why?”

“God is missing,” Matty whispered. “And they think WE did it.”

Children have a unique talent for misunderstanding authority.

They also have opinions—especially about parents.

Two boys once argued fiercely on a playground.

“My dad could beat up your dad,” one said.

The other snorted. “No way. My dad is way tougher.”

The first boy crossed his arms. “Maybe. But my mom is better than yours.”

The second boy nodded thoughtfully. “That’s what my dad says too.”

Truth comes out when kids talk long enough.

So does desperation.

Two fathers once stood outside a school, waiting for the bell.

“Bill,” one asked, “did you help your son with his math homework?”

“Yeah,” Bill replied proudly. “Solved every problem.”

The other man leaned closer. “Any chance I could copy it? Mine’s due in an hour.”

Parenting has never been easy. It’s just gotten louder.

And funnier.

Especially when kids mix logic, imagination, and fear.

Like the boy on the bike.

Like Matty in the closet.

Like every child who has ever jumped to the worst possible conclusion with absolute confidence.

That’s the magic of childhood humor. It doesn’t need polish or punchlines. It lives in misunderstanding, exaggeration, and the very human tendency to assume the world is far stranger—and far more dramatic—than it actually is.

Sometimes the Devil is just two boys dividing pecans.

Sometimes God isn’t missing.

And sometimes the smartest thing you can do as an adult… is laugh and let the kids keep talking.