Skip to main content

Jesus in florida (who is teaching who here?)


sometimes your children are so cute that you can't quite keep it to yourself.  hence this blog post.

caedmon is my accessory boy.  it is not unusual for him to be walking around the house in shorts, 3 shirts (one shirt is definitely not enough), a necktie, sunglasses, a hat, silly bands, sweat bands, different socks, shoes, and a necklace or two.  and then two minutes later it will be a whole 'nother ensemble. 

he's going to preschool now, and he's been learning a prayer for before meals.  but he hasn't quite perfected it yet, so it has been prayed in a variety of forms this week: 

"God is great and God is food,"  as well as the more theologically accurate, "God is great and God is good and Jesus loves me so." 

but just when you think he's got a beginner's grasp on Christology, we have this exchange:
me:  where does Jesus live, Cade?
cade:  in his house.  in outer space.  and around us.  he flies here.  (then, whispering...) he also lives inside my body. 

and then yesterday i asked him again about the whereabouts of Jesus, just to see if he stuck to his story.  not so much.  this time he told me that Jesus lives in heaven.  i asked him where heaven was and he said, "florida."  florida?!?  really?  well, what does Jesus do in florida?  "he rides the waves.  and goes to the grocery store.  to buy snacks for scooby dooby doo."  ahhh, yes.  in the end, all things come back to those meddling kids and their lovable canine. 

and just when i think i've got a bunch to teach him about God, he shuffles out of his bed, first thing in the morning, still barely aware of his surroundings, walks over to me where i am reclined on the couch reading the news.  it's still dark outside.  without asking if it is ok, or pausing to think about it, he somewhat awkwardly climbs up on me and puts his head on my chest, his morning breath a steady assault on my nose.  and without looking up or moving at all he whispers in a barely audible way: "i love you daddy.  sooooo much.  i love you daddy.  soooooo much.  i love you daddy.  soooooo much." 

and i realize that he is teaching me.  even though i may be better at saying grace, and i may have a full arsenal of theological answers, he has so much to teach me about God.  so i squeeze him tightly against my bare chest, his mismatched pajamas and sweatbands, along with his simple 3-year old faith and God-awful morning breath, become nearly invisible and undetectable in the glare of the pure and perfect love whispering out of him.  i cling to his warm and sleepy body like it's the last hug i'll ever have. 

and i say a prayer that i just learned:   i love you daddy.  soooo much.

Comments

donald said…
Beautiful. Thanks for sharing that.
NJ Grandma said…
Sweet three year old :)
monica said…
i think you could do a whole eucharistic sermon on God is great and God is food. He is.
greg. said…
amen!
Emoly said…
Bill has always said that Florida is just God's waiting room... maybe he and Cade are onto something...

Popular posts from this blog

#thoughtsandprayers

i made these comments and prayed the following prayer at one of our worship services at SPWF yesterday, and had a few folks asked if i would post them, so there they are: 
It has been a season of terrible tragedy.  And I have noticed in the news a trending phrase: thoughts and prayers.  It even has its own hashtag on twitter and other social media, but net necessarily in a good way.  People are understandably tired of hearing about others’ thoughts and prayers, when that is only a thinly-veiled way of saying that our only obligation to those who suffer is a brief moment of silence, or nothing more than a tweet or public statement.  The truth is that, for those of us who follow Jesus, much is required when our neighbors suffer.  We are called to do justice where we can, to love kindness and mercy, and to walk with God through it all.  But let us be careful not to throw out the proverbial baby with the bathwater.  We are, as people of faith, those who know that prayer is not simply an em…

a divided tree

there is a tree in my back yard.  i'm pretty sure it's an oak tree.  at least that's what i think Shannon told me.  i don't know my oaks from my maples, my elms from my locusts.  to me, it's a tree: a corinthian column bursting up into life and glory.  full of sap and pulp and rings and bugs and cells pulsing with water and always reaching for something.  it is full of rhythm, reach and flourish then fall and die, and repeat. 

this particular tree, though, isn't of one mind. 

half of it's rusted orange leaves have given up their grip and surrendered -gracefully or not - to the pull of gravity and the threat of winter.  the north side of this inauspicious oak is just about bare naked, all sticks and straight lines, a skeleton of itself.  but the side that looks south is stubbornly resisting change.  no longer green, the leaves have compromised their summer vibrancy, but they are clearly not ready to concede death just yet. 

i feel like i can relate to this …

vote. and pray. but do not be afraid (the King is alive).

i'm not sure how many americans right now are feeling optimistic about the government.  i know i'm not.  in fact, while i didn't live through the civil war or anything, i have to think that faith in our elected leaders - indeed the whole system of electing them in the first place - is at one of its lowest points.  i just don't have a great deal of confidence in those individuals who have been elected, or in those who want to be.  i find myself slipping at times into what feels like a swamp of apathy: sinking, to be sure, but not sure that i care enough anymore to do much about it.  i see this attitude all around me: in conversations, on social media, and in popular culture.  perhaps there is no more clear indication of our nation's view of the government than this current election season, when we would teeter on electing liars and thieves, crooks and clowns. 

which is why i was so startled as i sat down to read psalm 72 this morning. as i read the ancient song, i…