theblackdostoyevsky

Our Father,

I just experienced it. How we must look from your perspective. Certainly, in your infinite wisdom and knowing, you orchestrated this experience in a moment. A moment, however sweet and delicate to my soul, that would have passed without incident or second thought, had you not revealed, like a peek through a keyhole, what it’s like to be the Father of all things living.

Twelve hours ago, after a morning accident, I’d washed and dressed the bedclothes upon the lower mattress of my children’s bunk bed. Twelve hours later, with all of the laundry now washed, folded and put away, I’m finally finishing this morning’s job, dressing the upper bunk. After tucking the comforter down the backside of the mattress against the wall, hovering just under the ceiling on hands and knees, I’m unable to fold the cover underneath the mattress, to secure it, with my weight on it. So, I back down the ladder and, lying on my back upon the fresh, odorless bedclothes of the lower bunk, the children’s pillows and plushies all fluffed and propped, I reach up and start tugging the comforter under the upper mattress, fishing my hands between the wooden slats like I’m doing wickerwork, until the cloth is flat and even across the underbelly.

Just as I’m finishing, my youngest daughter runs into the room and climbs up onto the bed beside me. She lays on her back, her head even with mine. She grabs a foot in each hand and begins to babble and talk. Some words I understand. Most, I don’t. Her sentences follow a familiar cadence, and the inflection in her tone is thoughtful, rife with intent. She is communicating with me; confessing all her tiny heart, I’m sure, to her father. She is a happy baby.

We are alone. Finished with the bed, I tuck my hands behind my head. She looks over at me and, without pausing in her speech, grins and tucks her hands behind her head. By now, she is in the thick of her tale, or her stream of consciousness, or her confession, and her eyes comfortably, easily gaze away towards the sunlight spraying through window, sure of my presence. She sighs. She continues on.

“Mommy thifth brife um sliph dowol envisinket syee en fie daddy. Fidee.”

Only her bottom teeth show as she utters through her teeth in breathy intervals. Her brows are ever raised, eyes open and trusting.

“Suffer the little children to come unto me,” He says. “For such is the kingdom of God.”

She smiles. I smile back at her as she is, again, playing her fingers between her toes. Happy baby.

About halfway through her monologue, I stop listening. Not tuning her out but enamored with an overwhelming feeling of affection. Thoughts of her future and my faith for it gave rise to a desire to speak in me. But I hold my tongue.

“I’ll wait for her to finish,” I think to myself.

She’s still going. So I solace myself by queueing up praise for her in my heart. I imagine her as she grows, and the child, the adolescent, the young woman, the woman, the wife, the mother, the saint she will become. I imagine her wise and prudent, thoughtful, sensitive and honorable, adorning herself with that meek and quiet spirit that is of such great price to God. I see her as a loving and attentive helpmeet to a Christ-loving husband. I see her tending olive plants around her kitchen table. I see her bringing bread to her servants in the wee hours. I see her sewing. I see her beauteous face filled with happiness, because He has answered her poor and mourning spirit, hungry and thirsting for righteousness, in the joy of her heart. I see her aloof, residing in heavenly places with Christ, where her heart and treasure are.

And, “as soon as she is finished, I’m going to tell her all of these things,” I say to myself.

I can hardly wait to share with her all my heart as she is sharing all hers with me. As a father, what greater joy than the opportunity to speak life into my child. What greater responsibility or blessing is there than what occurred beside Israel’s deathbed, surrounded by his twelve sons and two grandsons, Ephraim and Manasseh.

“Any minute now. Then it’ll be my turn.”

Oh, how my heart bursts to cause her ears to hear the blessing of a father who loves her so unconditionally, so selflessly, so wholly, so holy, this love that a father has for his children. So tender, so divine, so longsuffering. The good it will do for her soul. The spiritual strength it will provide to the knowing within her heart. Time is stopped, there. All eternity waits for the moment.

“Perhaps she is wrapping up now.”

Suddenly, there is the sound of a distant cry. It comes from another room, another of my children. I don’t move, but immediately she stops talking. She listens. Then, she turns over onto her stomach, clambers quickly down from the bed, and runs away, towards the commotion.

And that is how we are in prayer.