“I sat by the fire until the sun came up; and asked God to help me understand the story of the forest and what it meant to be a tree in that story.”
Today Caiden and I walked, and we were both quiet. He kicked his chunky monkey legs as I pumped mine, pushing his stroller in front of me. We are worlds away, this little man who I supernanny-it-up for a couple of days a week, and I. We are worlds away, but the days we spend together are grounding, somehow. He needs such simple things: food and naps and walks and tummy time. Mostly, though, he needs love to secure him. When his mom leaves, he cries for her. I can keep him occupied with little plastic balls and blocks, and we roll them and stack them and knock towers down. Eventually, he relaxes in our time, and we laugh. We dance. We rock before his nap. He sleeps. I work. And he is perspective for me most days, a little one who only knows how to be. A little man who knows but one thing: to live in the present tense. That’s the best version of the human story, I think, to live in the present tense, to just be there, needing love to be secure and not afraid to cry when you think you’ve been forgotten by the one who loves you most. She’s still loving him when he can’t see her.
We are fragments of that human story, Caiden and I.
How quick I am to forget the present tense part. How quick I am to forget I am loved when I can’t see Him. How precious is the grace that is Caiden reminding me.