Last week I had the fun of waking up each morning in the same house as my granddaughter. Together we dove into an activity of her choosing. Sometimes it was fitting a puzzle, or drawing. Olly is fastidious about putting lids back on the markers. Her mother got her an interesting pad to paint on using water, which becomes reusable when it dries. That way she was able to repeat the pleasure of creating it, then when she turned around it reverted. Olly didn't take offense that her artistic efforts were temporary. 

 

It brought to mind the forty years I leaned into tasks that evaporated without a trace. The noodles cooked and served, the towels washed and folded. The slippery little bodies rinsed and meandering stories spun. No evidence remains and yet it mattered. Still does. 

 

Being with small people for all those years nourished me. I was technically the person who offered certainty, in that I knew the schedule, and the menu. On family trips I could articulate the route and pay for tolls. All of that contributes to a flavor of knowing that many of us find reassuring. 

 

Yet three year olds cling to a different stream of trust. Olly believes that her mom loves her even if she wails when her sandwich is cut into triangles instead of squares. Her curly head is not cluttered by thoughts of the economy, or world tribulation. I am more encumbered by such concerns. Is that a good thing? A necessary price for adulthood? 

 

Many of the possibilities I worried about never transpired. Others showed up unannounced. Yet as we sat on the sunny deck of our vacation cabin, aware that this moment was as fleeting as the water on her brush, a sense of permanence nestled into place. 

 

 

 “Assuredly, I say to you, unless you are converted and become as little children, you will by no means enter the kingdom of heaven." Matthew 18