the tiny ones.

There was a time in my life when I would have classified myself as "not a (little) kid person." What I described like a preference (as if enjoying/not enjoying children was listed with my personality traits along with how I like to eat a baked potato and what side of the bed I sleep on) was actually pure naivete: I spent little time around toddlers and babies growing up and had no idea how to interact with them. I awkwardly held infants at church and was mystified at how to connect with the tiny people in the preschool classes as they ran around screaming, pausing only to ask me if I had any marshmallows.

Now that I live with tiny people, I have a better appreciation and understanding for activities that require screaming and marshmallows. And I've been pleasantly surprised to discover that it is not as difficult to join them in their world as I once thought. Even with their limited vocabulary and various needs, they are teachers in many ways, aren't they? We marvel at their innocence, the full joy they get from simple things, their easy forgiveness.

Yesterday was my rotation in the preschool class during the church service. My 3-year-old was delighted, of course, at my presence, and the other kids kept me and my adolescent helper busy for the first half running around screaming (it must be the first bullet in their job description), coloring on things that should not be colored on, and depositing all their snacks onto the floor. We eventually unleashed them outside to the playground, and I was humbled when my helper, K, turned to me with a big smile and said, "You know, Miss Lenae, this is the funnest time I've had watching them. Aren't they just funny?"

I'd been busy dabbing at the sweat on my forehead and wondering how the kids could enjoy this cursed humidity. But K was right- those tiny people are funny. One little girl kept pleading with me to push her higher! on the swing, only to become instantly terrified and request to be let down. She and the other girl in the class were thick as thieves the entire hour and were a hilarious blur of shrieking girlyness. Swing Girl would remember her mother wasn't there every 10 minutes and suddenly dissolve into a trembling-lipped puddle; but she was also the only child who actually helped clean up the classroom when our time was over. "I'm good at cleaning," she told me emphatically.

One of the boys absolutely did not want to participate in the Father's Day craft we were putting together. "M," I said gently. "It's just paint. We're going to put your hand print on this card -see?- and then we'll wash it off right away." His eyes wandered for a moment while he contemplated how to get out of it, finally offering up, "Paint hurts!"

It made me think of the story of Jesus blessing children in Mark 10:13-16. He took them "in his arms"! I often wonder what it must have been like to actually see Jesus in person, to hear his voice, to feel his hand on your shoulder. How sweet and awesome must it have been also to observe the Son playing and romping with kids!

I have no marshmallows for you, tiny ones, (at least not at the moment) but you have my affection.