He sits beside me and tries to rein in all sixty-three of his jittery pounds, his brown hair uncharacteristically tamed save for the Alfalfa-like rooster tail, his dark eyes dancing about for a clock that isn’t there. He lifts his head to my ear and whispers, “How much longer?”
Not long, I tell him, and then I remind him it’s Easter and that Easter is an Important Day. On such occasions, preachers are generally inspired to preach a little more.
He nods and resumes his twitching, pulling at new khaki pants he does not like and then tugging at a clip-on tie he likes even less. My son understands Important Days, he just doesn’t get why he has to dress so fancy when they come along.
The congregation stands to sing. He welcomes this as an opportunity to stretch his legs and climbs atop the pew, his tiny hands clutching my shoulder lest he tumble. The voice in my ear is high and clear. My son knows this song well, standing on his tiptoes to nails the UP, then on to say how it was from the grave He arose, with a mighty triumph o’er his foes…
I’m writing over at The High Calling Today. Won’t you hop on over there and read?
