Handle with care: What a poisonous toad taught a father about the heart of Christ

I opened the door and saw my son holding a poisonous toad.

How did I know it was poisonous?

My dad, a nature enthusiast (and kampung boy), had once pointed out a similar one.

“See those spiky circular spots? Those are its poison glands.”

And now here was my son, proudly holding a Common Asian Toad (I googled) in a common plastic cup. It was barely covered with a dried leaf.

“Tyler! That toad is dangerous! Didn’t we tell you? Why did you catch it?”

Eyes wide, my son replied: “It was injured and trapped!”

“What? That’s worse! It might attack you!”

“How could I just leave it?”

“It’s poisonous!” I said, a little too loudly.

Defensive and shaking his head now, Tyler yelled back: “It didn’t choose to be poisonous!”

I froze.

My son stared at me, defiant but sincere.

The toad stared too, unblinking. It had those large and glassy “poor thing eyes” that reminded me of Puss-in-Boots.

“I’m … I’m just worried you might hurt yourself, Tyler.”

Tyler wasn’t rescuing the toad because it was harmless. He was rescuing it because it was hurting.

“That’s why I used a cup and plastic bag as gloves, Papa.”

He hesitated, then added softly: “I didn’t know what to do but I wanted to help it, so I brought it back to you.”

Oh, Tyler.

He had once seen me save a sunbird. We nursed it back to health before letting it go.

It was drizzling and getting late, so I carefully placed the toad inside a small tank.

That night, Mr Toad kept croaking a deep, rhythmic song that kept me awake.

I knew it was a mating call, but it almost sounded like he was saying: “Isn’t this familiar?”

Water for the thirsty

About a year ago, Tyler befriended some kids from the nearby rental flats (low-income households).

One day, he asked if he could invite them in because they were thirsty from all the playing.

Tyler’s playground friends whom he invited home.

I said yes, but I quickly wished I had said no.

The moment they came in, the kids were pushing one another, hurling vulgarities and leaving dusty footprints all over.

Efforts to control the rowdiness failed, and I was left angry and confused.

I even wanted to yell at Tyler for the company he was keeping.

But then came a quiet prompting in my heart: “These kids didn’t choose to be like this. Invite them again next time they’re thirsty.”

Sigh. Deep in my heart, I hoped they didn’t return (woe am I, a fleshly being).

But they did. And I couldn’t ignore the prompting to invite them back in.

So I set a few boundaries:
1. Wash hands and feet after playground
2. Ask before you touch or take anything
3. No vulgarities, or 10 push-ups

They agreed, laughing and even ratted each other out: “Uncle, he say bad word.”

Some of the children had parents who had left. Some had parents who drank too much. Some had parents in prison. Their roughness made sense. It was armour.

I did some push-ups with them too, and we ended up bonding.

I was … strangely at peace.

Over time, I learned their stories. Some had parents who had left. Some had parents who drank too much. Some had parents in prison. 

Their roughness made sense now. It was armour.

My nine-year-old taught me something divine: “Compassion doesn’t ignore the poison, it chooses to love through it.”

Understandably so, kids at the playground shunned them.

I even got a text later on from a concerned parent that “warned” me about Tyler mixing with “gangsters”.

I almost replied: “They didn’t choose the lives they were born into.”

So when I heard Mr Toad croaking that night, I also heard those kids’ voices in my heart, too.

And I thought about how quick we are to avoid people who seem “poisonous” (too angry, too needy, too messy, too unlike us).

But maybe, like that toad, they didn’t choose the poison life had handed them.

Truth is, we all carry some kind of poison. We all have rough edges that make us hard to love sometimes.

I believe it’s mankind’s fallen nature.

And this softens my heart: That God saw our poison, came close, and even took it upon Himself.

My nine-year-old was teaching me something divine about compassion, too.

The world says: “Shun these misfits.”

The heart of compassion is the heart I’ve been praying to grow in my son.

But my son reminded me: “Compassion doesn’t ignore the poison, it chooses to love through it.”

Tyler wasn’t rescuing the toad because it was harmless. He was rescuing it because it was hurting.

That’s compassion. That’s God’s heart for us.

That’s the heart I’ve been praying to grow in my son. 

And slowly … in me, too.

But it doesn’t mean we indulge in toxic relationships. Some of us have been deeply wounded by people who broke trust in ways that left real scars, and I’m sorry it happened. Your safety, your healing and your boundaries matter. I’m not suggesting we reopen doors that God Himself helped close, nor am I saying we must dive in to rescue every hurting or harmful person.

Discernment is holy, too. Compassion doesn’t mean the absence of boundaries. Compassion doesn’t mean having a saviour complex either.

But it does mean knowing where to bring the wounded.

We need to see the hurting, to approach with wisdom, and when we don’t know what to do, bring it to God the Father who knows.

In the words of my nine-year-old: “I didn’t know what to do, so I brought it back to You.”

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