2.5 Years: “Angels
really like to play with hopes.”
I thought that my toddler had said something extraordinarily profound and thoughtful. When she told me that angels like to play with hopes, I found myself pondering it frequently—the same way I had pondered her earlier claim that God was a rainbow. What a profound statement to hear from the mouths of babes.
Late at night, while I rocked her to sleep during fevers or passed hours by reading Henry and Mudge books, I would think about it. If angels exist, do they really like to play with our hopes? If there’s a God, does He tweak with our expectations on purpose, to teach us lessons or to help us figure out what we really need? If there’s a Heaven, is it where all of our hopes are satisfied, or is it where we learn to accept what we have already?
One day, we were visiting my grandmother when my daughter said it again: “Angels really like to play with hopes.”
I cocked my head to the side and asked, “What makes you say that?”
She climbed down from my lap and toddled to a small statue in my grandmother’s house, of an angel with broad, neatly sculpted wings. She pointed to the large harp where the angel’s fingers were permanently frozen.
“Hopes,” she said, pointing to the harp. “A hope, like this one. Angels really like to play with hopes.”
I thought that my toddler had said something extraordinarily profound and thoughtful. When she told me that angels like to play with hopes, I found myself pondering it frequently—the same way I had pondered her earlier claim that God was a rainbow. What a profound statement to hear from the mouths of babes.
Late at night, while I rocked her to sleep during fevers or passed hours by reading Henry and Mudge books, I would think about it. If angels exist, do they really like to play with our hopes? If there’s a God, does He tweak with our expectations on purpose, to teach us lessons or to help us figure out what we really need? If there’s a Heaven, is it where all of our hopes are satisfied, or is it where we learn to accept what we have already?
One day, we were visiting my grandmother when my daughter said it again: “Angels really like to play with hopes.”
I cocked my head to the side and asked, “What makes you say that?”
She climbed down from my lap and toddled to a small statue in my grandmother’s house, of an angel with broad, neatly sculpted wings. She pointed to the large harp where the angel’s fingers were permanently frozen.
“Hopes,” she said, pointing to the harp. “A hope, like this one. Angels really like to play with hopes.”
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