In Your Reflection

Some children are parrots.

Take Henry, for example. Whatever I say, he is absolutely sure to repeat it. His new favorite pastime is running up to me and reminding me of what I like to say. For the reader’s personal amusement, I’ll spell the words how he says them.

“You like to say, ‘Hey beh-bee!’”
“You like to say, ‘Yis beh-bee!”
“You like to say, ‘Oh-kee beh-bee!”
“You like to say, ‘Gootnight suhweet-hot!”

All butcherings of the phrases “hey baby,” “yes baby,” “okay baby” and “goodnight sweetheart” aside, it’s basically the cutest thing ever.

 

 Some children are little mimics.

The first week that we arrived, David kissed Moriah’s hand and told her goodnight. Johnny and Elias asked me why. I told them that’s how you greet a princess.  News must have spread, because yesterday as I was walking to my room I stopped to observe Ernest interacting with baby Ana. He smoothed her hair back, took her hand to help her down the steps, then kissed her hand.

 

 Some children are sticky.

David and Zeger went to the Catholic church this morning. David was sitting at the table eating breakfast before they left. Theresa, Janet, and Moriah surrounded him.

“What is dis?” they queried, gesturing at the dirty plates still on the table.

“Oh. That’s someone’s leftover cake from last night,” David replied.

Moments later, the girls had graciously cleaned the plate off for him.

Then they all climbed into his lap. Fortunately, they were all covered in peanut butter (and now vestiges of chocolate cake), which decorated his church clothes nicely. 

 

Some children are Johnny.

A couple of days ago, one of the other volunteers brought him to me. “I caught Johnny playing with a marker and the whiteboard eraser liquid at the school table, and now he says his ear hurts,” she said. I looked at his ear briefly then dismissed the complaint as an escape attempt. He knows he’s not allowed to play at the table.

Later he came to me again on his own. I took his temperature, and he was running a pretty decent fever. Feeling mildly guilty for ignoring him earlier, I gave him a glass of water and a dose of Tylenol and settled him down on the couch to watch Lion King 2. In the opening scenes, Mufasa looks down from the heavens upon the presentation of his granddaughter, Princess Kiara, to the subjects of the kingdom.

“Simba’s dad is still watching?” asked Johnny, ever the investigator.

“Yes sweetheart. Just listen to the song.”

Johnny tilted his head to the side and stared at the ceiling, listening intently to the words of the song. He lives in you. He lives in me. He watches over everything we see.

“Oh, I see,” said Johnny. “He lives in Simba’s heart. Like Jesus.”

Yes sweetheart. Like Jesus. Just like that.

The plot thickened as Simba must confront his own pride and extend mercy at the risk of his kingdom. His actions are motivated by his love and desire to protect his family, but in doing so he oppressed and alienated some outsiders of society. Mufasa guides him along the way, ever so gently prodding him towards reconciliation, redemption, and forgiveness.

“Simba was wrong, but he listened to his daddy in the end,” Johnny noted.

I smiled at his words and hummed that song to myself. And a voice with the fear of a child answers, “Listen.” Hear the words and have faith. He lives in you.”








He Lives in You

Night
And the spirit of life
Calling

Oh, oh, iyo
Mamela [Listen]
Oh, oh, iyo

And a voice
With the fear of a child
Answers

Oh, oh, iyo
Oh, mamela [Listen]
Oh, oh, iyo

Wait
There's no mountain too great
Hear the words and have faith
Have faith

Hela hey mamela [Hey, listen]

He lives in you
He lives in me
He watches over
Everything we see
Into the water
Into the truth
In your reflection
He lives in you

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sBX-nTBoV78