Share Day

Fridays are "share day" (what you and I probably grew up calling "show and tell," which really does sound kind of ominous in retrospect) at the public school where the boys attend first grade.  Today the assignment was, and I quote:  "Family Traditions-Draw a picture or write about one of your family's traditions."  Of course this is written in what I call 'unspeak;' that nonspecific, unicultural, nondenominational  correctspeak used in public schools these days. (Yes, credit to Orwell.)  Needless to say both boys quickly grasped that they meant Holiday Traditions, even, dare I say it, Christmas Traditions.

Holiday traditions are nice, however, these little dudes are only six-and-a-half and their memories of traditions only goes back, what, two years.  Anyway, I thought we might get a picture of  driving around looking at lights, a fireplace,  singing carols, making cookies, leaving "magic dust" out for Rudolph and his posse, opening presents Christmas morning, that sort of thing.

Here is what they spent about a half hour drawing last night:

lemme get out the decoder

You know what, we don't need the secret decoder ring here, do we?

I think they said it all right there, the joyful anticipation inherit in the Advent Wreath, and the birth of a Savior right there in that perfect stable.  All from our wild, wide-eyed, sweet,  unpredictable little caveboys.

This tenderness, this understanding, this reverence, this... belief.  Where does it come from and why is it so hard for me to remember?

There is a little story I have heard told in a bunch of different ways, that, to paraphrase, goes something like this:  I little boy meets his newborn baby sister, and in his excitement, asks if he can talk to the infant alone.  The parents say yes and wait outside the door, eavesdropping.  The little boy walks up to the crib, looks at the baby and whispers:  "Tell me about God, baby sister, I'm forgetting."  And then he stands there quietly, clearly listening for a while.  Then he sighs happily and leaves the room.  His parents can see the radiance beaming from their son's holy face.

Tell me about God, my sons, please...  I'm forgetting.

From Marci's '...things you don't expect to hear from the backseat...'

"If you cannot cooperate in the tent, then you will have to live in the box."

True at six, true at fifty.