Today as Glenn removed the last of our furnishings from the rail car in Port Royal, that despite its immobility, carried the weight of our entrepreneurial dreams, I retreated to Bluffton with Espy. I packed a picnic for us, and we enjoyed several hours at the park before I texted Glenn to verify that the task had been completed. The caboose was cleared, and our furnishings/literacy materials were tucked away within our tool shed. Over dinner, Glenn commented on the paradox of time, and specifically the alarming contrast of time invested in building something versus the swiftness of its disassembly.
This afternoon, as Espy and I gradually made our way back towards the Broad River, we took a detour to pick daffodils at a local farm. While in most instances, I am far too indecisive for claiming favorites, I can say without any reticence that daffodils are my favorite flower. I appreciate their sweet fragrance and sunlit hue, but these attributes are incidental to my appreciation for the bright perennial. I am drawn to daffodils for their unspoken promise of impending spring. Without fail, their blooms burst forth in colorful opposition to even the most wearisome of winters.
Today, Espy and I picked dozens of daffodils, and I tried in vain to teach my earnest helper to pluck stems from the ground, rather than directly beneath the bloom.
Once Espy declared that we had enough daffodils in our bucket, a kind gentleman helped to bag the stemmed daffodils in water, while making a separate water-free bag for the stemless blooms that Espy had plucked. We paid for our respective bouquets and returned to the car.
While driving home, Espy entertained herself with the yellow stemless blooms in her bag. Caught within my own thoughts, I registered that Espy was playing in the backseat, but I did not pay attention to the content of her imagined dialogue between Super Kitty figurines and the daffodils.
As I approached a stoplight, Espy cried out, "Oh no! It's broken!"
I glanced at the backseat, and she held the dismembered petals of one of the blooms.
"That's ok," I assured her, "We have lots of other flowers."
"Dear Jesus, Please fix my broken daffodil!" Espy pleaded.
She earnestly repeated the prayer several times, to no avail. The flower did not repair itself.
I struggled with how to respond because:
- She's two and talks to Jesus without prompting or pretense? This was not the first time that she has issued a seemingly spontaneous supplication before Jesus; a couple weeks ago, I overheard her praying to Jesus while on the potty. She was asking him to return her pacifiers... And while I would love to take credit for modeling this sort of "ordinary" presentation of requests to Jesus, our prayers are typically issued at dedicated meal times, and we do not incite her to participate other than to name something she is grateful for that day.
- How do you tell a two-year-old that not all prayers are answered in the way we intend? How do I tell her that sometimes Jesus allows things to be broken?
