This week at preschool we did a project with buttons. We have a generous supply of interesting ones, and the kids took their time picking out just the kind they wanted. They seemed not to be in a hurry as they poked their stubby fingers through the bin, noticing the small pink button, the heart shaped ones, the family of blues, the buttons with shanks instead of holes. Then a brown haired boy pushed a tad harder than he meant to and the whole bin slid to the floor. The reactions between grown ups and kids were divided. Teachers seemed to have a knee jerk response that this was a problem to be solved. The children found it as interesting to explore buttons while they gathered them back up as it was when they were already in one place. Maybe more so.

I fetched the dustpan and brush, which became popular, and we had to take turns. Sometimes at home I need to nudge people to sweep up. But here there were plenty of children willing to herd buttons, even the ones that had skittered across the floor. 

One of the spiritual practices I am trying to squeeze myself into is the understanding that circumstances that flare up as Wrong, might not be. Certainly when Ben got his diagnosis of autism my expectations of how life Should Be splintered apart. But fourteen years later I am no longer satisfied with the notion that he is a mistake. God has leveraged the experience to wring compassion out of our family in a way that we could easily have missed. 

My mother lost everything she owned in a flood, and it was the catalyst for us building an apartment on our home for her. While I never would have concocted such a plan, looking back I am speechless with the ingenuity of it all. 

Maybe the next time something unexpected happens at preschool, I will watch the two year olds for clues on how to respond.