Easter Parade

A little boy, let's call him Billy, bounces into church. Instead of his usual flashing-light sneakers, he's wearing black polished shoes. His mom pulls me aside, warning me that his Easter footwear is a little small and he may want to take them off. And then she leaves us to play and talk about Jesus.

At one point in the morning, he makes me imaginary garlic-bread pancakes. Delicious.

Nearing the end of our time together, he decides that he's tired of the other children and sits out of the games. I join him, and we chat about his parents (who he thinks are probably homesick, sitting in the service without him) and Easter festivities.

He swings his feet as he talks. So I acknowledge his fancy kicks.

Me: I like your shoes, Billy.
Billy: I know you do.

Oh, to get away with receiving compliments like that. So unfiltered and unaffected.

I love kids.

(Another little girl took over story time, claiming that the story of Jesus was based on a movie about a lion. Except that Jesus isn't a boy or a girl. Just sort of, but with really bright skin.)