I learn from them, age 2 and 4.
Little warriors, in pink, laughing and playing and learning.
I learn how to laugh again, as we charge down the hallway, chasing away monsters with pink plastic swords and teddy bears.
I learn wonder, when blue eyes widen as they hold snow in their palms. “Let’s wear ice crowns,” the younger tells me. “Let’s build a snowman and color it pink,” the older suggests.
I learn truth, when they hear the stories of the lion and other worlds and say, “I know the lion! We just call him Jesus, right?”
But mostly I learn hope from them, these pajama-clad heroes snacking on goldfish. I learn it when they point outside at Christmas lights and shout, “Look, Mary, look at all the stars!” And I look, but perhaps I don’t see, not yet. Until the oldest turns to me, blue eyes serious, and points to the top of their Christmas tree. “But the biggest star is that one,” she tells me. “That’s the lion’s star.”
And it’s like seeing for the very first time.