I'm driving home. The van is quiet. The evening is thick with humid haze.
"I have it figured out, Mom." Zay's voice comes from he backseat, still small and sweet and ringing with the beauty of little-boy.
"What's that?" I ask.
"The prayer. The prayer I'll pray when I'm grown."
"Do you want to share?" I ask.
I peer in the rearview mirror. Zay's head dips down. His fingers lace on his lap. "Dear Lord, thank you for this day. Thank you for our home. Thank you that when I was little, I had a good mom and dad and all that stuff."
He's quiet for a moment.
"And thank you for Jesus."
I need to be watching the road but this form of precious pulls me hard. I make a turn and notice that Zay's eyes are open now. He's watching Iowa cornfields blow by.
As I drive, I think about my own life and how my prayers of thanksgiving can often be scant or nonexistent. I think about Isaiah's wide-eyed-child awareness for what I take for granted. I think about how busyness can be a thief - ebbing away the beautiful until there's only stripped-down stress.
I don't say a word out loud.
But in my spirit, as God's child, I think about my son's prayer.
And soundly say Amen.
Enter his gates with thanksgiving and his courts with praise; give thanks to him and praise his name. Psalm 100:4