Where lions fear to tread

So it’s just your run-of-the-mill Saturday. We sleep in as late as we can before the kids drag us up and at ‘em. Equal doses of waffles and Barney help get us ready for the day. My four-year-old changes outfits at least twice and the toddler maintains a slow whine over top of everything.

Finally we head out for adventure. Since there is no children’s museum less than 3 hours away and the National Children’s Museum in DC isn’t set to open until 2013, adventure this morning meant going window shopping for toys. I don’t know how much longer our kids will let us get away with this. But while we still can, we tell our boys that we are going to look at the toys, try them out and then write down the ones that they like the most to be added to their Christmas lists. It’s fun, they try everything that has wheels. And usually we manage to leave unscathed.

But timing is everything and if we linger too long then the lunch crabbies will collide with the naptime crabbies and that can be apocalyptic. So we surrender the “mokabike” and vacuum cleaner that they have been test driving respectively and head for sustenance and chocolate milk.

Snaking our way though the long lines, snagging a corner table and facing a bountiful spread of grilled cheese, pumpkin muffins and potato soup I pause and out of habit rather than anything more profound ask Jackson if he would like to pray. The minute he begins to nod yes and move to get up from his chair I realize the unwitting corner I have backed myself into.

You see, Jackson doesn’t just pray quietly over folded hands. He sings. Loudly. While standing next to his chair. It’s a preschool habit that we have heretofore always applauded. Each day a different child is proudly selected to be the “prayer leader” and it’s a responsibility that they treasure. The prayer leader stands next to the table and while his fellow students bow their heads he leads them in a song of thanks for the food.

God our Father, God our Father
Once again. Once again.
May we have your blessing. May we have your blessing.
Ah-a-men. Ah-a-men.

Up until this afternoon I had never thought twice about this tradition other than to applaud how deliberate it has made our son’s attitude towards prayer. And he usually follows the song with his own set of specific thanks. But the song is – of late – a non-negotiable. He stands. He belts it out. And we are all expected to participate.

All this flashed through my mind in Panera Bread today as I watched him begin to push back his chair and move to stand beside it. I was suddenly excruciatingly aware of the jam packed mass of people surrounding us, the wait staff, and the fact that I could easily overhear the conversations of the diners around us.

Before I had a chance to reflect, my awkward, self-centered pride blurted out, “Jack, why don’t we just sit at the table to pray” (quietly – is what I was thinking. Invisibly if possible.) But then I caught his eyes over his folded hands and happy stance and saw the puzzlement creep into them. And I made a leap for that sly voice inside my head that wanted to talk my son out of declaring his thanks and love for our Savior and shut it down with one quick bite of my tongue. So that with the next breath I could say, “Go ahead, prayer leader” and accompany him through his fearless declaration of thanks to his God.

No one noticed as much as me. Other than God, I expect. And in that moment of teeny tiny courage on my part and fearless freedom on the part of my four-year-old some verses that I’ve never experienced first hand took on new meaning for me.

Now when Daniel learned that the decree had been published [to throw anyone caught praying into the lion's den], he went home to his upstairs room where the windows opened toward Jerusalem. Three times a day he got down on his knees and prayed, giving thanks to his God, just as he had done before. Daniel 6:10.

Just as he had done before.

If you’ve never read the full story, I encourage you to go read it here. It’s gripping.

I certainly don’t claim to know what that kind of courage looks like first hand.  What I do know is that I am leap years away from it. But today I was reminded how there are a hundred little moments when we are faced with the choice to close our shutters. A few inches here and a little bit more there until before we know it, our faith is hiding out behind closed doors and windows, safe and snug and out of view.

That is a lesson I do not want to teach my son.

And today, he helped me learn it.