Saturday, February 13, 2010

Toddler's faith

This is how I see myself. I am three years old. I am jumping up and down, saying, “Mom, Mom, Mom, look at this,” as my scrawny arms hold in offering a picture I have drawn for her. My mother is preoccupied—she’s cooking, or washing dishes, or she’s talking on the phone to her friend Bernice. “Mom, Mom, Mom,” I say as I pull on her skirt, pleading for a few precious seconds of her attention. The drawing on the paper in my hand is recognizable only as scribbles of color—green and orange and red and purple. There is no art, no recognizable form. If I could get my mother’s attention I would tell her it’s a picture of her and my father and my little brother Steve and our grandparents and our dog Gypsy standing in front of our house—all the things I love.

And this is how I see myself now, jumping up and down, trying to get God’s attention, a spiritual toddler. I want to show him the picture of what is in my heart—the picture of joy and sorrow, of fear and gratitude and loneliness and sometimes just the simple wonder of His presence. It's a toddler's faith.

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