Date

Chic purple wool and blonde curls frame the chocolate-stained face, looking small above the edge of the wooden table. Lilah and I are on a date. As her reward for memorizing Psalm 121, I'm taking her out for hot chocolate and a treat. Memorizing is a daily pre-breakfast duty which she usually counts as a privilege, a time when she sits on my lap and repeats phrases after me, sometimes copying my inflections, sometimes coming up with her own sing-song. Maybe she doesn't understand all the words now (though her insightful questions sometimes reveal that she understands more than I would have guessed), but what treasures she is tucking away for the rest of her life.

So, on a snowy Wednesday afternoon after Kita, Lilah and I put our boots and coats on and set out. In the landing outside our apartment door, she turns to me with arms outstretched, a sparkly smile, and an unmistakable, unspoken request: carry me? Quite irresistible. I scoop her up and bring those twinkling, trusting eyes right up next to mine. Last night's snow has freshened and softened the world, and I am primed to slow down and enjoy the charm. "Come on, we're going for a sleigh ride," Lilah sings. "Can you sing that song to me?" We sing "Jingle Bells" together as I carry her across the street to the little bakery.

Together, we examine the case. Lilah decides on "chocolate cake with cherries;" I order a small hot chocolate, a cappuccino, and one piece of cake with two forks. While we wait for our treats to arrive, we talk about Grandpa's arrival on Saturday, Lilah's day at Kita, and pigs. "Can you read me the story of the three little pigs?" Lilah asks. So I begin to tell her the story, her face growing serious and still as she looses herself in the world of busily building pigs and a hungry wolf. Just when the first pig finishes building his house, our order arrives. Lilah requests the story to be put on hold.

The hot chocolate is a bit too hot, so we turn to the cake. I cut Lilah's half into bite-sized pieces and she chomps away as if the cake might disappear like Cinderella's ball gown and carriage. "Can I try your cake?" she asks. "I think it tastes the same as yours," I tell her. She also wants to know why only men have hair on their chins and not ladies.

The cake is gone, and Lilah remembers the pigs. So I finish the story while her hot chocolate arrives at the perfect gulping temperature. She gulps and we talk about the pigs, the decorative bolts on the table, and the snow. "One pig's name is Chinny-Chin-Chint," Lilah tells me. "What are the other pigs named?"

"I think one is Wilbur," I began.

"And," Lilah looks out the large picture window for inspiration, "Cinderglop!"

We head back across the snowy street, hand in hand. Lilah is Chinny-Chin-Chint, and I am Cinderglop. It has been less than an hour since we left home, but the moments have been like pearls on a necklace instead of a handful of pebbles. Thanks for helping me take delight, Lilah.