"Camels store water in their humps."
"Meat-eating dinosaurs eat other dinosaurs, and even their blood."
"Pluto is a dog at Disney World, and it's also a planet."
"Stars are red and yellow and blue, even though they look white in the sky."
"And also, Mommy, you never heared any of these things before."
(That's not a typo; it's Tyler vernacular. Not heard. " Heared.")
For a moment, I think to debate with him, to tell him that I too learned these things when I was his age (or older, if I'm honest), and believe it or not, sweet child, you have a smart mommy.
But wisdom says: Let him tell you. Just let him tell you his discovery.
And I do. "Tell me more, Tyler."
"Strawberries grow in springtime, Mommy."
"And ants don't have eyes, but they have antennae."
His facts and tidbits are endless. He is my fact finder, storing tiny snippets in his hands and his mind.
(His brother is a more of an explorer, digging in and figuring out how something works, and perhaps never saying it out loud. Simply storing his knowledge by the handful. Tyler wants to know how it sounds; Tucker wants to see it in action.)
As I look at the pages of my journal this morning, I've been thinking on my new discoveries.
God is patient with me.
We are more than conquerors. Healing is in your hands.
Nothing is gained through hurry. Nothing, nothing.
God is the anchor for my soul; I will not float away.
I am betrothed.
His promises are true, he means what he says, and he is in this moment with me. Here. Now. Slow down. Engage. Don't wish this season away. There is much fruit here. Taste and see.
And I write it all down, my version of Tyler's dinner conversation. I talk about what I'm learning, just as my three-year-old does. He tosses words around, says them every way he knows. I doodle in the margins, I play with the words, I let my pen dance around the page.
He and I are both learning. I listen to him, careful not to interrupt, ready to hear what has crossed his mind today. His learning is new to him, even if it isn't new information for me.
And suddenly, I realize: perhaps God delights in my discoveries, too. He knows he is patient, all knowing, present, hearing, constant, and mine. And as I discover these things -- sometimes for the first time, sometimes anew once more -- he lets me say it. He lets me tell him.
Even though it's not new to him.
God's not saying, "Right. I know. Who do you think wrote the book you found it in? Nice try, kiddo. Tell me something I don't know."
He listens and delights as I learn who he is.
Tonight at the dinner table, I'll say, "Hey, somebody tell me what you learned today. Go."
And tomorrow, over my cup of coffee, God will whisper the same thing to me. "What'd you learn today, daughter of mine?"