Moonpie and Jesus

Those blue eyes stared at me with the expectation that the world would be handed to him on a platter. Waiting. The anticipation never once wavered. The belief that he would receive all he wanted was plainly written all over those cherub cheeks and tulip lips. The blonde hair glimmered in the sunshine. Its rays seemed to halo around his head. He blinked once, still waiting. His eyes never left mine. He knew he would receive. He had asked. That is all that was required. Asking meant receiving. Simple.

In that moment with my child, I was reminded yet again of Christ’s love for us. We ask. We wait. We expect. We know that by asking, we will receive. We stare, waiting in anticipation. His word tells us to ask. He challenges us time and again to come unto Him, that as His children we can expect good things. He is our father. He is our refuge, our comfort, our provider….. even more extensive than what our feeble minds can even imagine. He knows our desires before we know them.

Just as I knew those baby blues would find the Moonpie in my hand…knew that I would share it (albeit a tiny bit reluctantly at first) with my child before he had asked me…knew that he would ask me. “Biiiihhhhtttt” his high-pitched request carried its way to me almost as quickly as his stubby legs toddled him across the patio toward the ooey-gooeyness in my hand. I held my Moonpie in my right hand, Diet Coke in the left. He asked just as I got the best part of a Moonpie… the middle. Right where the marshmallow, flaky cake and chocolate collide into happiness. Yet I knew beyond any doubt that I would share it. Not only share it, but relish the moment of being able to share the moment with him. He chomped down on it, flakes of it spilling all over the front of his baby belly. Casually and familiarly, he climbed up beside me on the chair. Legs swinging to and fro, he chewed. Sitting together in companionable silence, we enjoyed my Moonpie together. Happily, I popped the last of it in his mouth for him.

Satisfied, he hopped down off the chair and went back to the heavy business of making messes and terrorizing the dogs. Isn’t that the way of it with God too? We ask. We wait. We receive. Hopefully we sit in silence taking in that moment, realizing that we are satisfied in the comfort of God’s dependability.

Nothing quite like a Moonpie and Jesus


A Courtier in the Valley

The swish of feigned elegance ripples across the crowds. Hushed whispers, malicious giggles, and lackadaisical comments eddy through the air carrying with them the promise of fresh gossip and delectable intimacies. She steers herself and her doubts through the massive crowd, trying to be friendly while remaining inconspicuous. She finds a place near the stage and waits… though waiting for what remains to be seen. Desperately she yearns to fit in, for the acceptance of the court, yet her every premeditated step is dissected and rejected as a misdirection; a rejection snubs her at every corner. An outsider and related to none, she finds herself with a deck stacked against her in a hopeless game. She spies a lawyer or two, a merchant, a banker, and a senator’s relative (though the relation is quite unclear) all in their pomp and glory. Their clothes shine brightly and their wealth ostentatiously glows about their beings. She watches as ladies’ eyes roam about the room, spying for the slightest stirrings, the slightest detail out of place. One leans into another, palm turned inward in a desperate attempt to conceal the mirth behind the words. Another grabs her friend’s elbow, and they sashay themselves outdoors to regale one another with stories regarding those with whom they are most intimate. Her eyes meet those of a friendlier face. The green eyes crinkle as a smile stretches across a lovely countenance. She smiles and awkwardly gapes at her shoes, inspecting them in a way that leaves one to think she had not realized she’d been wearing them at all. A shadow envelopes her, and she raises her eyes to meet the gaze again. The mouth opens as though to speak, but is jerked forcibly sideways. A delicate hand is at the elbow, persistently tugging in the opposite direction. The power and force behind such a tiny hand is off-setting, and she moves away from the couple to avoid any potential contention. Tip-toeing her way as though on eggshells, she lands safely in the presence of other “would-be” courtiers. She mingles among them settling in the familiar currents of conversation.

An intimate hushed inquiry weaves its way into her ear. She turns toward its source and realizing a familiar face, she confides her opinion.

A push, a shove…. she is violently vaulted out of the realm of the court. Such an opinion is never welcome, never permitted. Such is not to be thought, much less spoken aloud… certainly not from an outsider, a no one.