When I sing in the preschool each week my voice goes on auto pilot. It takes no effort to spool out the words to songs I have been strumming since college. This frees up my eyes and cognitive thought for gazing into the faces of children that I love. They don't know that I love them, I suppose. They are fully engaged in learning the words, and whacking drums. My affection for them runs deep. Not only do I enjoy them for all the qualities inherent to four year olds, I know and love most of their parents. Older siblings. Grandparents. Great grand parents. While my mouth is occupied with lyrics, my mind remembers this child's great grand father in Arizona who told my kids stories about a little purple man. Or the grandmother who came to our wedding forty years ago when she was pregnant with twins. Or this boy's great granddad who was the bishop in John's early years as a minister. Or the great grandma who gave us couches from her furniture store. Or the ancestor who is my mother's younger sister. 

 

My devotion to each child snowballs over the generations, slicing through Time as if she has no power to keep Love small. Which she doesn't. 

 

I suppose I could try to convince them of my affection. Using logic, and evidence from events that took place before they were born, I could make a ten point argument with iron clad proof. 

 

But why? 

 

Their attention is saturated with figuring out how to clap and sing at the same time, and march to The Walls of Jericho. I will keep my adoration to myself, or at least as much as one can contain the heat escaping from a warm body, or the breath from living lungs. 

 

Sometimes I look over my shoulder and glimpse the angels who apparently love me. I cannot fathom why, since I am plagued with flaws and self doubt. I struggle to get the rhythm of getting supper on the table and finishing a quilt commission. 

 

Maybe it's not my place to comprehend the depth of heaven's allegiance, but simply to bask in the miracle of being loved.