morning confessions {letters to davith}

it's so early not even the sun is up yet.  i herd you & brother & sister with baby in hand down the stairs,  flip on the overhead kitchen lights.  too bright! i settle for just the light over the oven for now.  easier on tired eyes.  brother & sister find their places at the counter & you pull yourself up on a kitchen chair & perch yourself to play with baby sister's feet as she bounces in her seat in the middle of the table.
i scurry around the kitchen spilling cereal & milk all over the counter... quickly before there's a riot, breakfast quickly.... coffee quickly.
you peer past little sisters seat at a leftover dinner plate as she squeals with delight.
"mummy?  is Jesus coming to breakfast?" you ask.
goodness i hope not, the house is a mess! i'm a mess! i think to myself.  people are a lot more honest in the wee hours of the morning, or so i have found.
"ummm, what's that now?" i stall to pull together an answer.
"is Jesus coming over today?"
i squint still half  asleep...sigh.  why do you always ask the most complicated theological questions before dawn & while reverend daddy is no where to be found.
"well, yes He is... i mean, He's always here.  He's all around us & He comes with us everywhere we go.  He lives in our hearts." whew!
"does He like our cheerios?" crap! i scour my brain, trying to remember what all of the parenting books i've read said.  dozens of books, none i recall addressing this question.

"mmmmm, i don't know, why don't you ask Him?" cringe.
"Jesus, do you like cheerios?" you ask to the seat next to you. "He not answer me Mummy." crap, crap!
 "weeeell, sometimes we need to learn to listen differently.  He doesn't always talk to us like other people do." i am drowning fast, i rub the sleep from my eyes & take a deep breath.  trying to come up with a way to salvage my pitiful answers.
"can Santa come to breakfast?" cringe.  deep breath.  the answer i know i have to give runs rough against my grain.
"well, Santa isn't real peanut.  he's just like bob & larry or bambi.  we just pretend play Santa..." so did not want to tell you that at the age of three. thought we could at least keep the rouse going until age 6.
"oh." long pause. "can we put Jesus away?"
"well, some people try to put Jesus away but we lose when we don't have Jesus.  Jesus is a person.  we can't put Him away.  we only like to think we can.  that's like me saying 'let's put davith away!'"
you giggle at the thought of being put away in a toy box or a closet.
"that's silly mummy... silly mummy!"  i smile.  yes, silly mummy.  to think that Jesus would mind the crumb littered floor or the spilt milk or my pre caffeine hair or my apparent lack of parenting skills.  no.  He'd be right at home here.  He is right at home here.  here with me & you & brother, sister & baby.  i think of all the times i've tried to 'put Jesus away'.  how many days, how many mornings i've 'lost' trying to hide under my humanity.  avoiding His goodness, His love.  i don't even know why.  embarrassment maybe?  but Jesus took us, chose us before we ever had the ability to please Him.  no need to hide the imperfection from Him.  He chose you & He chose me, with messy hair, sleep lines & morning breath.  He chose us.  And He hears your questions, although you haven't yet learned yet how to distinguish His voice.  And He has all the answers.  He has so much to tell you, so much to pour into you & out of you.  He is there dear son.  all around you whispering His love for you through the cheerios, through pjs & spilt milk.  and He is there even in the wee hours of the morning.