When I was a kid, I had the M&M's people figured out. Their slogan was, "The milk chocolate melts in your mouth, not in your hand." Well, of course it melted in your mouth. If you held an M&M for too long, the candy coating would start to melt in your hand, coloring it. In a rush to minimize the mess, you would pop the candy into your mouth long before it ever got to the chocolate.
"I'm going to get you!" I threaten as I start to slowly lumber toward her, wiggling my fingers in the air.
I spent part of my day today under the dining room table. Why? Because apparently I've got that kind of time on my hands.
The other day I was looking back at some old pictures of Chloe. Some of them were more than a year old. If it weren't for me or Amy in the pictures with her, I would think I was looking at someone else's child, not mine. I was amazed at how much Chloe had changed in such a short a time.
At Chloe's day care, they have a large window cut into the wall. Every once in a while, while I'm on lunch, I'll drop in and look at her through that window. From the hallway, I can see how she's doing, how she's interacting with the other kids and whether she's behaving.
Chloe stood in the doorway of her room, smiling at me. Yet the smile was unlike her usual smile. It didn't hold the brightness. It didn't display the openness. There was no enjoyment in it. Instead, it seemed guarded. Forced. Something plastered on her face to distract me from something else she didn't want me to see.
The other day, Chloe was trying to get into a chair so she could sit in it "like a big girl." Unfortunately for her, she wasn't as big a girl as she thought she was.
I once heard a story about a little girl who walked into the living room, where her father sat reading the newspaper. She stopped in front of him and started recounting her day's events. Every couple of seconds, from behind the wall of the newspaper, she would hear him mumble things like "Mmm-hmm," "Really?" and "That's nice," but she could tell he wasn't really paying her any attention.
We were visiting Amy's family in Texas. On Sunday morning, we went to church, and God taught me something during the worship service.
I believe object permanence - or the lack thereof - is God's gift to new parents.
Amy has an old TV/VCR combo she's owned since before we got married. She never uses it anymore, so one day her father took it and hooked up a neat little contraption to it. A small, box with an antennae sat on top of the unit, receiving a wireless signal from a camera he mounted on the wall over Chloe's bed.
In my last article, I wrote about "object permanence." This is the understanding that even though you can't see something, you know it still exists. If Chloe has or wants something we don't think she should have, we remove it from her sight and she forgets about it.
On February 10, 2006, Joshua Coleman Myers entered the world.
It is a question that many people, Christian and non-Christian alike, struggle with. It is a question that I myself have struggled with for many years. Even after seminary and almost 10 years as a pastor, I find no easy answers.
I'll remember Friday for a long time. It's a day that I'll remember because it's a day when two significant events occurred.
As a guy, I think remote controls are wonderful things. I love the look and feel of them. They seem to fit so perfectly, so comfortably in my hand.
We were sitting in the sanctuary, waiting for the evening service to begin. My Bible was in my lap, and Chloe asked me if she could see it.
Page 1 of 1