My four year-old sits quietly in the pew with his pen and paper. All around him, the sanctuary is dark and full of mystery.
His slow hand moves and concentrates across the space and centimeters of paper. I hear deep, unspoken conversations taking place between him and the lines and shapes.
He works like a surgeon, speaks from behind a mask. On my side of childhood, words can get lost here.
But he remains present in his space. He listens to the curves and follows their subtle turns.
A word captures his attention, though his parents don’t know it yet. We glance over, from time to time, to watch him, thinking we’re the ones monitoring him.
He is still and focused. Like a prayer.
And then he reveals his work. He lifts the word like a beating organ. And smiles. His eyes are bright. They give a new shape to mystery.
My heart opens and picks up an extra beat when I see the word dangle from his hand. Plaque crumbles to the sanctuary floor. I’m breathing again, looking up, once again, for lines and shapes.
And for my Father’s eyes.
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