There’s something deeply humbling about realizing the smallest person in your house might actually be the wisest.
The other day, my son stopped in the middle of our walk because he saw a leaf.
Not a golden leaf glowing dramatically in the sunlight like something from a Pinterest quote. No. Just… a leaf. Slightly crunchy. A little crooked. Probably stepped on seventeen times already by stressed adults rushing somewhere important.
And this child stood there staring at it like God Himself had personally signed it.
For five whole minutes.
At first I did what every busy adult does.
“Liam, come.”
“Baby, let’s go.”
“We have to move.”
Meanwhile he was crouched down, fully invested in this leaf’s entire existence. Turning it over. Feeling the texture. Looking at the tiny lines running through it like he was studying ancient scripture.
And I don’t know why, but something in me softened.
Because when was the last time I looked at anything like that?
When was the last time I let something ordinary completely interrupt me?
Adults don’t really look at things anymore. We scan. We rush. We optimize. We consume life in fast-forward while simultaneously posting about burnout and buying lavender-scented candles hoping they’ll heal us.
Meanwhile toddlers are out here living like tiny prophets.
They wake up excited about birds.
Birds.
Every morning my son acts like birds are rare mythical creatures personally sent to bless him. The amount of joy this child experiences over bubbles, rocks, leaves, dogs, ceiling fans, and passing cars honestly deserves to be studied.
And maybe that’s exactly why Jesus said the Kingdom of Heaven belongs to people like them.
Because children experience the world without cynicism.
They haven’t learned to become numb yet.
A baby can find wonder in a puddle for twenty minutes while adults walk past sunsets because they’re answering emails.
I think somewhere along the way, growing up quietly became synonymous with hardening.
We call it maturity.
But sometimes I wonder if we accidentally traded awe for efficiency.
Even in faith.
Especially in faith.
Some of us know how to explain God better than we know how to notice Him.
We can debate theology for six hours but haven’t stood still long enough to admire a cloud in months.
My son doesn’t “try” to be present. He just is.
If he’s eating a strawberry, he’s eating that strawberry like it’s the best thing to ever happen to humanity. No scrolling. No multitasking. No worrying about tomorrow’s grocery bill while chewing.
Just strawberry.
Honestly? I aspire to that level of emotional availability.
And wellness, real wellness, might actually live somewhere there too.
Not the expensive kind with twelve-step morning routines and sea moss smoothies made by women on TikTok with spotless kitchens and emotional stability.
I mean the kind where your nervous system finally unclenches because you remembered life is still beautiful.
The kind where you sit outside for a second longer.
The kind where you laugh properly instead of typing “😂”.
The kind where you notice flowers again.
Children are so deeply present that they make adults uncomfortable.
We are always trying to move them along.
“Hurry up.”
“Leave that alone.”
“Come here.”
“Focus.”
Meanwhile maybe they’re the focused ones.
Maybe we’re the distracted ones.
Maybe heaven has always required softness more than sophistication.
And I know life is hard. Truly. Bills exist. Grief exists. Deadlines exist. There are dishes in my sink right now glaring at me with hostility.
I’m not saying we should all quit our jobs and start emotionally bonding with tree bark.
I’m just saying maybe we were never supposed to become this disconnected from wonder.
Maybe faith was never meant to feel like performance.
Maybe God still speaks through small things.
Through belly laughs.
Through slow mornings.
Through tiny hands reaching for yours.
Through a child staring at a leaf like it contains the secrets of the universe.
Because maybe it does.
Or maybe the real miracle is that he still knows how to stop.
And honestly? I think he’s right.
