The Day We Became Friends

May 28, 2012. That was the day my niece Anna and I became friends. She was two years, one month, and twenty-one days old.

Until then, every time I saw her, she gave me the most quizzical look—as though I were visiting from another planet. Even before she was speaking, her expression said it all: “Who is this guy, and why is he here?”

But that day, at her new house, we went fishing together in the backyard. She had a rod. There was no bait on it.

Later we headed to the driveway, where I helped her with her scooter.

We went up the hill. We went down the hill. She said, “Again!”

We went up the hill. We went down the hill. “Again!”

We went up the hill. We went down the hill.

I lost track of how many times we did this.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, I realized she wasn’t looking at me like a stranger anymore.

“Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, ‘Do it again’; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, ‘Do it again’ to the sun; and every evening, ‘Do it again’ to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we.”

—G. K. Chesterton, Orthodoxy

Category: Musings