Deep Thoughts

My youngest daughter, Abbey, looked at me this afternoon and said, "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" She's four. I said, "Yes" and winked at her; she winked back and returned to what she was thinking about. I don't know what that was. But I wish I did. What was she thinking about in that moment? What was going on behind those saddle-brown eyes with falling auburn hair in them? I've been home quite a bit lately; I have some writing deadlines and so many days have found me in the basement, in front of a keyboard, from sunstart to sunfinish. She's four, so she's been home as well. She's come down to check on me quite a bit lately; she doesn't stay long, just a little while. Although I hear her coming down the stairs, she is convinced she's sneaking up on me and greets me with a "boo" and I do my best startle and she always says, "It's me - Abbey." Many days she wants to go to a "dot-com" and print off coloring pages from a My Little Pony or Curious George website. She's a four-year old persistent widow and so we usually sit and wait for my printer to start its heaving, eventually coughing up pictures for her to color. I've noticed the last few visits that she has put her hand on my arm while persistently presenting her widow's case. I wonder what she's thinking about? I hope she's thinking that her dad is so happy when she sneaks down the stairs to startle him. That he's so relieved that it's her - Abbey, whose name means "father's joy." I hope she's thinking that it's a good thing for her to put her hand on my arm and reassure her dad that his work these days in not in vain, although somedays he feels like a loser, driving his family in a metaphorical covered wagon across uncertain terrain in search of his dreams to be a writer. I pray she's thinking that asking me for coloring pages will help me to keep some childlikeness in my afternoons that frequently border on the serious and anxious. I hope she's thinking, "Hey, I'll stand close enough to dad so he can smell my hair. He helped me wash it last night and that'll make him remember the true work of his hands these days - fathering. He's got plenty of time to be a writer, but his days of fathering are numbered. I'm four, but not for long." And maybe that was what she was thinking about this afternoon when she asked me if I knew what she was thinking about. "I'm growing up daddy, fast." Today it's dot-coms and "boo" and the man with the yellow hat, but tomorrow it'll be girlfriends and boys and talking on the phone until 2am and saying, "Aw, dad" when I stop and smell her hair, hair that once took two to wash but now takes one. I don't know if that's what you're thinking or not, Abbey. But it's what I'm thinking. Thank you, dear one, for your hand on my arm. Thank you, pumpkin, for startling me daily into what really counts. Thank you, one so fresh from God, for reminding me that you do get to participate in coloring your life's pages. And bless you, my child, for letting me help you wash you hair, if just for a little while longer. That's what I'm thinking about.