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.