“I don’t want to pray,”
slap words sting
from my four-year-old daughter.
How have I millstoned God to her
so she won’t bring
her earaches to Him?
I remember “Are you saved?”
evangelistic, zealous aunt
cornered me, seven.
Next time she visited,
I hid.
Jesus is different
His words a compelling beckon
lure-and-bait questions
irresistible Pied-Piper-tune stories.
I see my little girl
one of that eager wriggling crowd
pressing too close
for disciples’ comfort.
His eyes draw her near
she leans, trusting, against Him
He lifts her on His knee.
While He talks
she watches the way
His chin moves
fingers His beard
catches His eye
whispers
“I have an earache.”
Violet Nesdoly 