the little children

My children don’t carry the burden
of things unaccomplished.
They don’t yet know the meaning
of the ticking clock.
To them, the sun’s journey across the sky
only means more or less light in which to play.
They do not ponder the repercussions of what
they do or don’t do,
but rather drift along the day’s current
like little leaves.

They are not bound by internal expectations.
They do that which amuses them,
Pursue what interests them,
And submit to their own needs.
They sleep when they’re tired,
eat when they’re hungry,
cry when they’re sad,
laugh when they’re amazed
at the little things I forget to see
as amazing.

They beg to be out in God’s great earth,
undeterred by what I’ve learned to call bad weather.
They marvel at the birds and
call them by name.
They question without doubt,
Feel without hesitation,
Love without fear,
Live without shame.

They delight in their own bodies,
and celebrate their own strength.
They move with confidence, as if
constantly offering an unspoken prayer
of gratitude for being
fearfully and wonderfully made.

They are not untainted by the leaven of sin,
which they’ve inherited from my body
and my model,
but they have not been corrupted by it.

I cannot strip off my years like onion peels,
Or unlearn what I’ve been taught.
I can’t throw off all responsibility
And become a child once more.

But I can watch my children
And see in them God’s desire for us all:

To be and love and live and worship,
And embrace this gift called life.






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