Who are dear to us

Today Kachi was bored. 

The kids are all sick again, just ten days after getting over fevers. Kachi, who'd been the most sick last time, is the least sick this time. He's got a cough and less energy, but no fever.  So while the other kids have been drifting in and out of naps on the couch, Kachi hasn't had a lot to do.

So, instead, he has spent a lot of time and diligence writing books. They are heavy on stick-figure illustrations with lots of action and weapons, and a few words. 

His fourth book was about himself and his best friend. He illustrated as many playdates as he could remember, one after another. After he'd finished, he climbed upstairs to find me and threw himself at me with a deep sigh. 

"I'm feeling so emotional now," he explained, eyes a little full, "Just from thinking about my best friend."  

And part of me wanted to laugh. (I did not. I hugged him tight and told him I was so glad he had such a wonderful friend.)

And then I wondered why - why did I want to laugh? Did I think it was silly, that an 8 year old should feel the weight, the magnitude of examining his closest, dearest friendship? Has it been so long since I did the same? 

Just last night, I teared up over friends who decorated their lawn stump.

I, too, sit down and write stories about mine.

Jesus, too, teared up over his friends.

Jesus, too, told stories about them. 

God, too, filled the universe with pictures and wonder and mysteries and people that make him - yes, a good word choice - emotional.

And at Christmas we sing and retell. We bring gifts and retell. We reenact the story of love given and feel the weight of it, year after year.

I kissed the top of Kachi's head.
"Same, little apple," said the tree.

 

Merry Christmas, dear, dear friends. xo.