By Julie Perrin
In the darkened lounge room, the two-year-old wakes and stands in his cot. His grandpa, reading the news in the adjacent bedroom, is the first to hear him. The grandpa calls the little one’s name, makes his way through the dim light, and picks him up. His grandson nuzzles against his shoulder.
The grandpa has a plan, he says: “I’ll bring him to the bedroom, and he can bounce around for a while.” They arrive to the big bed, but the two-year-old does not want to romp. He does not speak or protest, he crawls straight to the edge of the bed and slithers to land feet first on the floorboards. He stands straight-backed and heads out of the room.
Grandparent and toddler.Credit: Michel O Sullivan
I follow him through the lounge and into my study. This is a room he has rarely entered. But here, now, he walks directly to the reading chair under the window. Morning light is gentling through the narrow venetian blinds. He climbs onto the armchair and curls up, in his own small privacy. When I move to cover him with a shawl he pushes it away. My husband stands behind me in the doorway, waiting and quiet.
After some moments of stillness, the little one turns his head towards us and speaks. “Mummy’s got a baby in her tummy. My baby brother.” He tells us what is on his mind; what will stay in our minds in the months to come. Who can ever comprehend such an arrival?
The two-year-old stands with his back to us, separates the slats of the blind with his fingers and looks out into the winter morning. Then he turns around and puts his arms out, ready to be lifted into the day.
My time now needs its own structure as my work is sporadic. But I too easily allow myself to slip the rituals that begin a day with intentionality and clarity. Instead of yoga, reading and prayer I’ll fold the washing or send texts and emails. I fall into tasks that have a deceptive immediacy, but which lead me away from a good beginning.
Now I keep seeing my grandson, the set of his shoulders and the sureness of his barefoot steps, that straight-backed little walk. I see that it’s possible to go towards what you most need, and to quietly claim it; to sit alone and wordless with a dignity that requires no explanation. And when words come – and tell what matters most – the two-year-old shows me where prayer begins.
Philip Newell names this moment in his paraphrase of the Beatitudes: “Blessed are those who know their need, for theirs is the grace of heaven.”
Julie Perrin is a Melbourne writer. Her book A prayer, a plea, a bird, is published by MediaCom Education.