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09-20-2007, 11:07 AM
HE WAS ASKING TO PRAY
"Men, men . . ." My 17-month-old son, Christian, held out his tiny hand toward me, and repeated, "men, men."
I had just put him in his high chair for lunch and served him my gourmet version (I add peas!) of the ubiquitous macaroni and cheese. I was just sitting down beside him with my plate similarly laden, when his sweet, anxious voice persisted with his "Men, men, men." His arm reached toward me, so I offered him a spoonful of my fare; maybe it just looked better from my china plate than it did from his plastic "Best Kid Ever" bowl. But no, he maintained his undifferentiated reaching, his hand held out. How about some pureed organic carrots and squash? (Really not bad stuff, if you don't want to chew.) Still, his blue eyes pleaded for something else, something different. For what?
I got him some juice. No good. Still the "men, men." He didn't want my food, different food, my dish, or juice. What did he want? Exasperated, I just gave him my hand.
He folded his little hand into my palm. Finally satisfied.
"Men."
"Ohhhh," I gasped. "I forgot to pray." Our family always holds hands during prayer. "Men" was Christian's version of "amen," what my husband and I chorus as we finish praying. He was asking to pray.
I felt terrible. How could I forget to pray with my son? How could I get so busy and distracted that I forgot to thank God for that which sustains us? I also felt excited. I was overjoyed that my son, who as a child of God, in himself an answer to prayer, would be the one to stop me in my tracks, and point my eyes beyond the worries of world strife, human suffering, issues at work, socks to sort, telephone calls to make, papers to grade. He forced me to cease my frenzy, to look beyond.
So I enfolded his hand within mine. And out loud I thanked God for our food. Christian repeated, "men," pulled his hand away, and dug into his macaroni and cheese while I silently finished my prayer. With that deep tug that only a parent's heart can know, I thanked God that He gave me this child who would lead me with his simple faith.
By Cindee Bailey
"Men, men . . ." My 17-month-old son, Christian, held out his tiny hand toward me, and repeated, "men, men."
I had just put him in his high chair for lunch and served him my gourmet version (I add peas!) of the ubiquitous macaroni and cheese. I was just sitting down beside him with my plate similarly laden, when his sweet, anxious voice persisted with his "Men, men, men." His arm reached toward me, so I offered him a spoonful of my fare; maybe it just looked better from my china plate than it did from his plastic "Best Kid Ever" bowl. But no, he maintained his undifferentiated reaching, his hand held out. How about some pureed organic carrots and squash? (Really not bad stuff, if you don't want to chew.) Still, his blue eyes pleaded for something else, something different. For what?
I got him some juice. No good. Still the "men, men." He didn't want my food, different food, my dish, or juice. What did he want? Exasperated, I just gave him my hand.
He folded his little hand into my palm. Finally satisfied.
"Men."
"Ohhhh," I gasped. "I forgot to pray." Our family always holds hands during prayer. "Men" was Christian's version of "amen," what my husband and I chorus as we finish praying. He was asking to pray.
I felt terrible. How could I forget to pray with my son? How could I get so busy and distracted that I forgot to thank God for that which sustains us? I also felt excited. I was overjoyed that my son, who as a child of God, in himself an answer to prayer, would be the one to stop me in my tracks, and point my eyes beyond the worries of world strife, human suffering, issues at work, socks to sort, telephone calls to make, papers to grade. He forced me to cease my frenzy, to look beyond.
So I enfolded his hand within mine. And out loud I thanked God for our food. Christian repeated, "men," pulled his hand away, and dug into his macaroni and cheese while I silently finished my prayer. With that deep tug that only a parent's heart can know, I thanked God that He gave me this child who would lead me with his simple faith.
By Cindee Bailey