In church last Sunday, my pianist son played a mellow duet improv with cellist friend Ken. It was gentle and healing, both worship and blessing. Usually, I listen as a mother, holding my breath, holding him up. (Alright, already. He’s legally an adult, and we both survived a couple of years of separation.) This time, for my sake more than his, I chose to receive it only. I’m glad I didn’t miss it.

Afterward, the congregation was silent, as is our tradition, quietly absorbing the gift. And then our toddler friend Elliot called out from behind me, “Good job! Good job!” I’ve been smiling about Elliot all week: his joy, his approval, his generosity. Can we be like that again? Can we become as a little child?