My inlaws are pretty great.  They love their grand babies well.  They have always spoken wisdom and kindness over our lives.  They even watch the kids for days at a time to allow mama bear and I some much appreciated alone time.  

    While watching the kids, they taught them something wonderful.  My son is in a stage of life where he cries strongly over small things.  He trips and falls.  Tears.  He can’t get his boots on.  Sobs.  He wants another graham cracker.  Wailing and gnashing of teeth.  I am patient with him, cause I too was soft in my youth.  

    Well, the grandparents had him for a few days, and they gave him something I just learned about.  The other day while playing frisbee, momma bear gave Little Nesto a black eye.  He walked right into the path of the flying disk.  It blasted him right in his orbital socket.  He went down like a sack of potatoes.  Momma picked him up and consoled him.  And all the sudden, through his tears, he uttered, “We have so many wild adventures.”

    Where did that come from?  I’ll tell you.  Grandma and grandpa told that to him when he got hurt.  Whenever he would get hurt, they would tell him that this was their wild adventure.  It was a way to get him out of the moment of panic and into his mindspace of superheroes and capes.  

    And as he cried, and we laughed cause of his seemingly nonsensical statement, I grabbed something.  Life is crazy.  And there is great hurt in the midst of it.  Sometimes, I go to my Father in heaven and I am shaken like a little kid who just got blasted by a frisbee.  But the pain isn’t the center.  No.  Being on mission with Jesus is a wild adventure.  And wild adventures are full of cuts and bruises.  But we are don’t cry alone.  We don’t suffer alone.  And the black eyes heal.  Amen and amen.