He's a wildcard.
Sneaky, charming and cute, determined -- that's our spunky 3 year old.
I can barely take my eyes away from him before he's off and into something new, and every time we think he's grown just a little bit out of his wily ways, he brings us back into the moment, the reality in which we live.
And that reality is that he is predictably unpredictable, a wildcard in the truest sense.
Saturday afternoon, my boys were outside clearing out the garage with John, and I was running out the door, bordering on being late to an appointment.
Bordering on being rushed but not yet frazzled.
Bordering on making a quick, hurried exit.
But Saturday was my sabbath rest day, so I resisted the urge to jet out the door, jump into the car and take off, waving to my boys.
I climbed into the driver's seat as I was saying goodbye to John, put my keys in the ignition when a small whisper prompted me to ask, "Honey, where's E?"
We looked around, and he was nowhere in easy sight.
I almost shut the car door and left, hand on the key, ready to turn when another whisper said, "Find him first."
We began walking past the cars toward the edge of the driveway when my friend, who was leaving at the same time, said to us just as we reached the back of my Highlander and looked down, "There's a baby under your car."
And there he was -- our youngest, our baby -- hands under his grinning chin nestled under my car, body pressed against the driveway.
Heart pounding, I scooped him from beneath the car and scolded him for playing somewhere so dangerous before refocusing and audibly giving praise.
Audibly thanking God, dozens and dozens and dozens of times, for that small, soft Voice in my brain.
And for the ears to hear.
And for answering the heart cry I pleaded Friday, totally not knowing what I was actually praying for but somehow knew was needed.
And for allowing this lesson about how rushing never makes life better to sink into my thick, hard head.
And for the Whispers quietly spoken that graciously get us through.