He stands looking at the flower bed. I come to him, seek what he's seeking.
"Look. Mommy." I look.
Are you looking at the yellow tulip? Are you looking at the purple bluebells? Or the dried leaves left from the fall? Maybe it's the spider hanging suspended, patiently waiting between the rhododendron and the camellia, food to come its way.
I never know. He looks down and picks a dandelion. Those plagues poking up all over the front yard, declaring to all passersby how I don't know how to keep a lawn just lawn.
But he doesn't condemn. He scrutinizes the yellow seeds, still soft. Begins tearing them apart. Awed. Then, with sun beaming warm on our matching sandy brown hair, he leans into me. Puts his head on my thigh.
Rests.
Rests long until sleep overtakes. I sit silently. Watch the spider sway and the golden beetles scuttle. It's quiet. Only birds and a neighbor a couple houses down clipping branches, radio playing low.
Watching his body, white skin, bare feet, little arms curled up, eyelashes dark and full.
I could be like the beetle, there is so much I need to do. Laundry to move around, lunch to make, floors to clean, school to teach. But I sit and bask in the holy moment.
Never again will my two year-old sleep on my leg in this way. Time, the enemy and friend, challenge my senses, I knowing I must take mental pictures for to get my camera would take the moment from me.
My neighbor walks by and smiles quiet. Sees the holy and doesn't intrude.
As my feet begin to fall asleep with the babe, telling me the moment's near done, I pray for him.
This time I don't pray he will love God or serve God powerfully on the mission field (though I do pray that sometimes). This time I pray that he too will have holy moments. Will embrace the holy moments God gives to him.
That he will not move so quickly through life, so caught up in the now and urgent, that he misses the quiet hallowed gifts. Sacred always.
