When the children say "I want to help you," I cringe. I think to myself, "No, no, no, you'll wreck it," but I say outloud, "No thanks, sweetie, I got it."
The wee one repeats himself over and over, "I want to help you, I want to help you, I want to help you," grabbing a chair and rocking the table. The stove is hot and he spills the soup on the toast in the skillet, and I say, "No, no, no, you'll wreck it."
He doesn't hear me, though. Picking up wooden spoons, stirring the pot, patting the bread. "I want to make it, I want to help you." He will not be stopped, will not be deterred. There is nothing to say to a determined three year old eyeing nothing but grown-up goodness and a chair next to mama.
I turned off the computer today because in my head I say, "No, no, no..." too many times. Two weeks left here and I worry about the square pictures on a sticky screen when the man and the children and the Lord say, "I want to help you. I want to make it."
My place is not virtual, my body is not digital. I am here now, my heart beating and breathing. Help me. Make me.
See the drops of soup on the bread.
He is making.
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