that i actually am not right about everything. that at my ripe age of 31 i still have oodles to learn.
i'm a sucker for hooks in stories. like take for instance a classic: the prodigal son. there he is, in the pig-muck, convinced it is as bad as it can get. he is feeling like that is what he deserves: pig-muck. imagine his surprise when the prodigal returns to be prince. to run into the embrace of a father who never left the porch waiting for his baby boy. except that is, to sprint towards him as soon as the boy crested the horizon.
every. single. time. i read that part of the story my heart gets these little warm fuzzy socks.
this past sunday when i read the story and i looked down into two sweet little princess faces and i couldn't help but see myself in both of them. one had a slightly dubious, but hopeful look. like: can it be? does he really love me that much? the other had a beaming grin from ear to ear.
it might just be that he really is good. that he knows what he is doing. with all of this. that perhaps, just perhaps, he's a way better story teller than i am. and the "hook"? oh man. is it going to be a good one.
so i curl up with cocoa and devour "heaven is for real." i dream of clouds and having a bow and arrow to fight the bad guys. i remark to my husband, happily, that we'll have bows and arrows in heaven. he looks confused, and then gleeful because he has something funny about me to post and it had been a while since kaiya had said something post-worthy. i rest. i read revelation and wonder if the shade of jasper is as green as i'm hoping it is.
i raise my little head up out of the pig-muck and come home to big arms that make me a princess.