A quick note because it feels important to pin down this part of life and to rewrite a chapter I could easily remember differently.

Thanksgiving came and went and now the garland is up, the lights are hung, the stockings and ornaments and small nativity are pulled out.  In one day the advent calendar will go up and then the real countdown will begin but the reason it all feels even more precious this year than past years is because of that two year old boy who thinks Christmas lights are simply "Amazing," and who prays, "Thank you for loving us, Jesus," and who would like to wear his Christmas jams
Every. Single. Night.

I was lying in bed with Nate the other night looking through old photos and old videos of our boy and it hit me that the reason this Christmas seems so much lighter and sparklier and sweeter than Christmases past isn't because we're being careful to not let the calendar fill too much or because this fall has been filled with so much more sun, or even because we have a sweet baby to cuddle.  It's because that little boy is spouting words left and right.  And many of his words are about Jesus or Moses or even Hezekiah.  I had been so ready to breeze through age two because of all the war stories, the lines and bags under so many toddler mamas' eyes, but here I am almost on the edge of my seat.  This little boy is constantly pointing me to Jesus.  And he does it with such peculiar language, such simple sweet sentiments (alliteration much?) that my tired, hormonal heart melts multiple times daily.  A couple years ago, I started intentionally preaching the cross to my self and now I have a tiny preacher man walking the house who is just beginning to meet Jesus but already is pushing me to run harder, truer, straighter.

I love the twos.  I love them because I get to hear toddler prayers and toddler renditions of Bible stories.  I love them because he pulls my brain into new spaces: Did Moses have hairy feet?  Didn't Cain know that hitting isn't kind?

I even love the naughtiness and discipline the two's demand.  Is there anything sweeter than a two year old asking you to forgive him?  Asking you for a snuggle after you walk him through the process of repair that broken rules require?  Is there anything more convicting than realizing that you're not only responsible for teaching him how to be kind and good and obedient but also why he must be those things?

I've never prayed harder for my own character, never confessed my own sin so easily.  Brennan is over here going through the terrific twos while I live out my terrible thirties.  Because at the end of the day, that boy's heart is miles more innocent and trusting than mine, his love a thousand times more unconditional.   And this is the great hope of parenting, isn't it?  That one day our children run harder and truer and straighter towards Christ than we ever did.  That one day they pass us as we all race towards the King while that glory cloud of witnesses whoop and holler and cheer us on.