At first I shook my head and sighed. What in the world was he doing now? But after a moment, I remembered. He was recounting the Bible story of the evening prior. I read him the story of Jesus rising from the dead. I made a surprise face and told him Jesus came back to life, and then I cheered, telling him his friends were happy to see him (which is partially true).
And he remembered. So as I held his little brother, trying to rock him to rest, Bronson held his own worship service, yelping out “Yea! Yea! Yea!” Jesus is alive.
This was just moments after our prayer before bed. He listed off people and things he wanted to pray about, and then I prayed. I prayed quickly, trying to rush off to aide his crying brother, but as I left the room I heard Bronson whispering his prayers. Dada, Mama, Baby, Mimi, BapBap, ball… Then repeat. Sometimes he throws random things into the list by pointing around the room. One night it was the door stop. At the dinner table, a spoon.
So as I rocked Oliver to sleep, my eyes welled up with tears. I don’t think I’ve ever been part of such a pure prayer meeting. As I drift off to sleep tonight, I can only hope to have a faith that mirrors my son’s.
Yea! Yea! Yea! Thank you, thank you, thank you.