I don’t speak the language of little boys.
But my husband does.
For example, recently in the rush of twelve people getting ready for church, I observed a couple of quiet exchanges in this foreign language.
My husband and 6-year-old son were rummaging around in the back of our closet. “Found it! “ Dad crowed, pulling out a blue blazer. “I don’t think I have ever worn it, actually. “
Minutes later, standing side by side, they called to me. “See? Do we look like each other?” Decked out in matching ties, blazers, slacks, and carefully gelled hair, both smiled broadly. Looking just like his best friend made that little boy beam.
“…that when He appears, we shall be like Him….” 1
The morning whirled on. As we walked out the door, my husband’s shoe choice stood out. Running shoes? I lifted an eyebrow. “Uuuuh, we couldn’t find one of our 5-year-old’s church shoes,” he rushed to explain. “So we’re both wearing our school shoes so he won’t be embarrassed by himself.”
Earlier, Mom, who doesn’t speak little boy language, had searched the entire house for said church shoe and finally pronounced it lost. “Wear your school shoes or go in your socks. We have to leave!” I had exclaimed before rushing on to solve the next problem, leaving a teary boy in my wake.
My husband, on the other hand, had gone to the boy in empathy and walked the path, shouldering the grief and shame with him by choosing to suffer the same consequence even though he had done no wrong.
“Surely he hath borne our grief and carried our sorrow….”2
Although I do not speak the “Little Man language” of our youngest sons, today I am grateful for the language of the Holy Ghost that has helped me learn from the Christlike attributes of my best friend and personal interpreter.
Now, if SuperDad can just master the language of teenage girls, we’ll be in business.
Happy Father’s Day!