The faith of a child

Tonight at dinner the topic turned to theology. Not deep Dallas Theological Seminary theology. Four-year-old boy theology. Nathan’s friend joined us for dinner, and the two enjoyed flaunting their knowledge of the Bible and of God.

The first topic was God’s size in relation to tortillas. Hudson announced that his tortilla was the longest, and Nathan informed his playmate that God was longer. This led to some confusion as to whether God actually is a tortilla or is merely bigger than a tortilla.

The conclusion reached that no, God is not a tortilla and that yes, He is bigger than one, the boys ventured onto the subject of creation. Hudson described a numbering system that God used when creating the earth, the idea probably stemming from hearing of the seven days of creation. Nathan, then, proudly boasted of his superior knowledge of the subject: “No, He just spoke, and it … made.”

On the subject of Nathan, I have been reading to him from The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. I love to watch a little one experience something great for the first time. The plot, of course, is enthralling. The writing, too, is leagues above most children’s stories. While reading descriptions of the children’s feelings when first hearing Aslan’s name or of spring coming to Narnia, I like sneaking peaks at my little brother and seeing the far-off Narnia look in his eyes. He has been introduced to a new world, one that he will become very familiar with. Now, he only grasps the basic elements of the plot. Each time he reads it, however, he will understand more and more, enjoy it on a deeper level.

Perhaps this is why I chose early childhood education. I want to introduce children to greatness and truth while they are still young so that they will seek after it for their entire lives.

That's my sister

Apparently, my not-yet-15-year-old sister can strike fear into the hearts of teenage boys. While resting from setting up for the Fourth of July, Kelsey was swinging on a tire swing. Meanwhile, a group of 15 to 20-year-old boys was lounging around. I heard the following conversation:

“What would happen if I gave Kelsey a scare?”

“Man, don’t try it. She would come down on you and whoop you.”

“Seriously, Kelsey could kick your butt.”

“I mean, you can’t get away from her. She swims fast; she runs fast; she rides her bike well …”

“I know; Kelsey’s just crazy!”

The conversation continued in this vein for several minutes. I listened, much amused, as the boys reminisced over various encounters with the wrath of Kelsey, lauding her tremendous fighting abilities and warning those boys who would be foolish enough to incur said abilities upon themselves. One of the group closed the conversation by saying, “Yeah, Kelsey could beat you up. And it would be fun to see her do it.”

I feel very safe now.


My fearsome sister

A summer storm

This month foreshadows a summer much hotter than last year’s. The humidity is already oppressive, and the drought that usually hits in July or August has stretched its fingers into June this year as well. Today’s thunderstorm, then, was a welcome relief.

The house grew dark, and we knew it was coming. My sister and brother and I went outside and watched. The trees lost their mellow summertime color and adopted an electric green hue. The wind was strong. It tangled up the greenbelt and threatened the lives of the smallest trees.

My sister and I stretched ourselves on the warm patio pavement and watched the battle raging in the sky. Light and dark warred against each other while flashes of lighting split the sky in two. The stormy gray overpowered the few spots of light, sweeping over them with intense power. Soon, only a small blot of white was left. The dark attacked it, surrounding it on all sides. And it was gone.

Several doves sped past, and a swift or two struggled high, high up amid the swirling mass of gray.

All was wild and untamed. The greenbelt churned, the clouds whorled, the wind bellowed, and, in the Northeast, the thunder crashed.

Then the rain came. Huge, frothing drops. Slowly at first, then faster, then in torrents. We stood and watched. Then we ran. We ran around the backyard, then through the gate and into the field. We circled the field, swinging around trees and leaping across ditches, joining the wild, untamed nature in reckless praise of our Father’s creation. A crash of thunder streaked across the sky, starting as a distant rumble in the North, growing to a roar, and culminating in an explosion above our heads. And we rejoiced.

The storm was short, but it cleared away the humidity and cleansed the stagnate air. Now the birds are back.