Tadhg got a barely visible puncture wound of some kind on the sole of his foot yesterday--the barefooted days are beginning again. I didn't think much of it after washing it off because it was so hard to find. This morning after waking up, though, he commented that it still hurt. I had him sit with me so I could take a look at it.
"I hope God heals my foot."
Wheels clearly turning as he takes a mental inventory of his various injuries.
"I hope God heals my foot and my pinkie and the spot on my head." [He pulled a Pippin and fell into something headfirst yesterday and is now sporting a nice bruise just to the side of his eye.]
I asked him if he wanted to pray that God would help all his hurt spots heal up. Affirmative. We prayed.
It was quiet for a while. I talked about putting some triple antibiotic ointment and a bandaid on his foot. Quiet again.
"Mama, God will come flying down from the sky and bonk into our walls and come and rrr-rr-ip my ouchies off!!! Rip! Rip! Rip!" [This statement accompanied by melodramatic facial expressions and sweeping movements.]
Internally cracking up, I clarified a bit what healing could look like, but Tadhg was clearly too enamored with the image in his head.
"But God would come flying down and bump, bump, bump into the ceiling and rrr-rr-rrr-ip my ouchies off!!!"
I mean, I suppose God COULD do that if He wanted to...
HA! What's funniest to me is how much I was inwardly cringing imagining ouchies being rrr-rr-iiiiped off! Talk about a cure being worse than the disease. (Also, I cannot get over this image of a clumsy deity.)
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