Little Iliana, my three year granddaughter, selected The Little Engine That Could from the shelf of children's books in my family room. Her grandpa, my Tom, knelt beside her as she pulled out first one book then another before settling on this classic.
Grandpa suggested they sit in the living room to read, where tiny sister, Claire, age one, pushed herself along on her toy rolling horse, while holding a rainbow colored ball she found in the toy box. The wee ones' mama, our daughter, Cassie, and I were having a pleasant afternoon conversation while eating oatmeal raisin cookies made especially for this moment.
Out the window a squirrel leaped from picket to picket along the fence. Crows squawked while perched in the newly-budding trees of the neighbor's yard. The sky was gray. Oregon gray. The air brisk. The day begged for homey child-play.
After snuggling into the soft sage sofa, his granddaughter beside him, Tom opened the hardback's cover. Having read this book to our four children, many many times, the pages were quite familiar. With expressive enthusiasm, Grandpa Tom read the old friend as if for the first time. Iliana's golden-curled hair framed her intent face as she leaned over the book, her chin on Grandpa's arm.
My golden-haired husband read each page deliberately. With great care and interest he pointed out items in the illustrations, asking simple questions of Iliana, her answers quick, yet thoughtful. She remained riveted.
From cover to cover the two traveled with the little engine that could meeting imaginary people and circumstances, all the while oblivious to Claire on her horse with her rainbow ball, to Mama munching a cookie, to Grandma smiling at the joy in the cozy living room, that room with its treasure trove of happy child-play memories spanning thirty-five years this May.
Joy, that balances the world. Sweetness, which softens the unpleasant. Love, which reminds us of the One who makes all things beautiful in His time.
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