Praying With My Eyes Wide Open – Theology for Preschool Through First Grade

Last night before we took the Christmas pictures, during our dinner prayer, my son acted like a three-year-old.

That’s okay, I guess. He is three after all. But here’s what that looks like during a prayer.

We all hold hands around the table, my wife, my daughter, me, and my son, in that order. We bow our heads. I usually pray:

Me: Dear God, thank you for this day and this food.

[At the mention of food, Lyle plants his nose in the mashed potatoes and makes a hog noise: "churff, churff, churff." I try to ignore these noises.]

Me: Thank you for Mommy and the hard work she does every day. Especially thank you right now for the food that she prepared.

[Lyle lifts his head and looks at me. I know this because I can't pray with my eyes closed at dinner for fear that something horrible will end up on the rug or the ceiling. Lyle has mashed potatoes on his chin like a beard. He laughs about this.]

Me: Thank you for CJ… and, um, Lyle. I pray that you will fill them with your Spirit and help them to glorify you in all that they do.

[That's my standard prayer for the family. All of life is ministry. It's an important thought to me. To Lyle, not so much. He blows a loud raspberry, and I can feel bits of mashed potato spittle land on my arm.]

Me: Please help us to stay healthy and strong.

[Lyle let's go of my wife's hand and sticks his finger in the mashed potatoes. His finger works fairly well as a utensil. Unfortunately, I know where that finger has been.]

Me: Um. Um. Um.

Amy: In Jesus’ name, Amen.

[Lyle says an enthusiastic "Amen" and sticks the potato covered finger in his mouth.]

Thereupon follows a discussion about reverence.

“Lyle, remember how we’re supposed to act when we pray,” I say. “We need to show reverence to God.”

“What’s reverence?” my daughter asked. She’s six.

That’s a good question, so I think for a minute, using a bite of mashed potatoes to earn some time. They are very good. My wife stirred in half and half, butter, and feta cheese. That means lots of vitamins, right? They are delicious. Just the perfect creamy smooth texture.

Then I take a stab at reverence. God made the world, I say, thinking briefly about both Huckabee’s answer in a recent political debate and Francis Collins’ book proposing Christian evolution. Then I bring myself back to my daughter at the kitchen table. If you’re talking to the person (person? I think that’s not quite right, but she’s six), if you’re talking to the person who created the world, you don’t want to be flippant about it.

“Flippant?” she asks.

“Imagine the principal wants to talk to you,” my wife says rescuing me.

“In her office?” CJ asks.

“Sure, but not because you’re in trouble. Because she wants to know how your day went.”

“Why would she want to know that?” CJ asks.

“She just does. Because she loves you, I guess.”

CJ laughs at that, but she’s smiling at the thought that her principal could actually love her.

“I got an award today!” she exclaims and goes on to tell us about an award for raising the most money in a school fund raiser. “It was the best part of my day. What was the best part of your day, Daddy?”

Like so often, the best part of my day is the moment I hear that question, sitting around the table with my family, wondering at the absurdity of God’s love, and hoping he sees the humor in the formulaic prayers we mumble while the food grows cold.

Did my son hear any of that? Probably not. He’ll still end up in time out later for spitting on me or slapping his mother in the face or sitting on his sister until she screams. But I have to assume all of that is more about him being three.

What else can we do but love our kids, teach them about God, and pray that they turn out alright?