The children are dismissed for children’s church. Tina’s two, and children’s church is for three- to five-year-olds. But I think she’d like it. Should I go down and stay with her? As I think and pray about this, a polite little voice asks if she can go. “It’s just for the big kids,” I explain.
“Tina big kid,” says the little voice.
We go downstairs. Tina doesn’t know the songs, but she enjoys the music. Then the children play with play dough. I’m not very artistic, but I try. “I’m making a ball,” I announce.
“Tina ball,” comes the response, and we both make balls.
I grow bold. “I’m making a snowman,” I tell her, piling up three balls.
“Tina snowman,” comes the response.
I must be an artist! I have a protégé.
Now she’s three, and I no longer have an apprentice. Tina operates entirely on her own.
We’re in the bathroom brushing our teeth, and she notices an owie on my hand. Ever so gently, she rubs some of her own cream on it. I’m impressed.
“You’re so gentle,” I say. “Maybe you’ll be a nurse when you grow up.”
Tina’s back stiffens. She’s just thought of an idea, all by herself. “I’m going to be a nurse!” she announces, eyes flashing with determination.
If only she’d listen . . . .