“. . . And God, give them wisdom to know right from wrong and the courage to do it, even if it’s hard.  Thank you for the special plan you have for Tucker and Tyler.  Amen.”

Tyler rolled over to face me; he was already snuggled with his blanket, his face to the wall.

“What’s the special plan?”

That’s when I realized this is the same phrase I use when I’m unveiling an adventure for the afternoon: a special plan for today.  This might call for some clarification.

“God has a special plan for you, buddy.  That’s why you were born, because he has something planned that only you can do.”

From the top bunk, Tucker asked, “But how will I know what to do?”

“God will tell you.”

“But he doesn’t talk to us.”

“He does, buddy.  You just have to listen really closely.  You have to be really quiet and still, and you’ll hear him in your heart.”

Even as I said this, I could hear the vague language of it all.  And there is such a vague nature to it all.  God does what he wants, and my experience might be different from theirs, but I want them to know they can ask him, and they can wait expectantly for him to answer.

“How do you listen with your heart, Mommy?”

“You stay very still, you listen, and in your mind you will know what he wants you to do.  Sometimes, he speaks right into my thoughts.  I don’t hear his voice, but I know that what I’m thinking is a gift, something I couldn’t have thought of on my own.”

“Can we try it?”

“Sure, guys.  Let’s pray right now, and you can ask God to speak to your heart.”

They each begin their own dialogue with the One who created them, and I prayed that God would indeed hear them and choose to whisper something in this moment, this trial and error, this early childhood experiment.

Please God.  Show up right now.

“God, can you please tell me your plan and show me what to do?”

Silence.  We waited.  I prayed with my own expectation. God, speak to my boys.

Tucker sat up.  “He did, Mommy!  He told me!”

And even though I believe this truth with all my heart, my inner skeptic ruffled her feathers a bit, too.  If my son is about to tell me something about the Halloween costume he’s begging for or what dessert he should have before he falls asleep, then I’m not sure this invitation to listen and worship will have been effective.

“What did he say, Tucker?”

“I asked him, ‘God, can you please tell me your plan and show me what to do?’ and he whispered in my heart, ‘I will, Tucker.'”

Holy God.  You whispered to my son, the promise that you will.  This conversation was between you and him.  It is enough for me that he heard you.

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