when babes speak

I'm sitting in a new favorite place--the Home Town Deli/Espresso. It's a quiet place on a busy corner. Velvety dark chocolate, squiggle-embossed couches beckon invitingly, but I resist. I'm working on the edit and update of a book on eschatology, and I know myself well enough that if I succumb to that tempting invitation, the book is likely to go by the wayside, and I'll spend an hour simply staring at all those delightfully oversized chess pieces.

I must be good. I must focus. I must keep my thoughts on nuclear probabilities and Syrian/Iranian alliances and world upheaval. To that end, I adjust my earplugs and set Doug Smith's fingers loose. From the first strains of his "Deep Heart" CD, I find myself focusing better ...

... for about twelve minutes. But then I remember yesterday, and the imps who filled it. And I have to leave Mahmoud Ahmadinejad for a quick minute, because I can't write about him and smile at the same time. And smiling is in order.

First, there was Rachel. Seeing her at the after-church potluck reminded me of something her mother shared with me recently. It seems that Rachel has penned a repeat-worthy phrase; something I plan to begin incorporating into my own outbursts. Whenever Rachel (age 3), feels frustrated at some task, she bursts out with, "Oooh! My seatbelt is arguing with me!" or "My tights are arguing with me!" or "My hair is arguing with me!" How great is that? Insert any pesky life-detail in there, and you've got yourself an instant outlet. It's so true. Life is full of annoyances that insist on arguing with us.

And then there was Eli. Eli (also 3) is a new delight; a transplant from Murrieta, California and specifically, Calvary Chapel Lake Elsinore. I already adore his family and feel like they've been ours forever. Eli (who, incidentally, knows everything you could ever want to know about oceans and fish and Dori, of "Finding Nemo" fame), was in his Sunday school class yesterday while Jennifer and the kids sang a rousing, dance-inducing worship song together. He endured it patiently for several minutes, but then he couldn't take any more. Picking up his Bible, he thrust it toward Jennifer and said, "Please ... can't we just read?" Oh, that we all should have such a love of the Word.

And lastly, little Hannah (4), who I've written about here and here, sat at a table with Joey and Anna (and Eli and Gabriel), Heather and Jaden, and me. After a bit, she excused herself to go to the bathroom. And when she returned, a few short minutes later, she crawled up next to Heather, grinned, and said, "Did you think about me when I was in the bathroom?"

Oh, to be a child. To believe that we are so loved, that not a second goes by when we're not being longed for.

How fitting that as I type this, Doug Smith plays "I Only Have Eyes For You" in the background.

Mahmoud calls. Reluctantly, I leave the giant chess set, the chocolate brown couches, and my littlest friends ... and return to lesser things: visions of nuclear fallout and apocalyptic devastation.