Small Wonder

"There's a whole apple tree in there?" he asked in wide-eyed wonder, staring down at the small brown seed that sat in the palm of my hand.  It tumbled to the floor as I prepared a snack for the two of us to share: sliced apples dipped in a mix of peanut butter and honey.  This happens often when I slice apples.  The seeds fall, I bend to pick them up, toss them in the sink.  But this time Evan was there, waiting patiently for his snack as we chatted about something, most likely monster trucks, his latest obsession.  The seed fell and he picked it up quickly, inspecting it with his curious young eyes, bright blue and big as saucers.

"Did you know," I asked, taking the seed and placing it in the palm of my hand, "if we buried this seed in the ground and gave it sunshine and water and love, it would slowly but surely grow into a great big apple tree?"  To his three-year-old mind, this was absolutely amazing; how fantastic that an entire tree could be encapsulated in a tiny seed!

"Can we do it, Mom?  Right now?  In the back yard?"  His excitement was contagious and I found myself giddy at the thought of having our very own apple tree.  Then my adult mind kicked in and I told him that it probably wouldn't survive if we just stuck it in the ground in the back yard.  A squirrel may dig it up; we may forget it's exact location.  We decided instead, that we would plant the seed in a small pot and keep it in the house where we would be able to care for it and keep it safe.  Then, when it got big enough, we would move it to the backyard.

"Or," I speculated, allowing my mind to become childish once more, "we could just leave it in the house and have a great big apple tree in our living room!"

"Cool!" he exclaimed, and then became silent, the wheels in his head quite obviously turning.

"Mom, what if we planted the seed in my hand?  What would happen then?  Would a tree grow?"  I could have just laughed, called him a silly head, suggested we eat our snack.  Or, I could have explained to him exactly what a seed needs to grow into a tree and that it would be scientifically impossible to do it in the palm of his hand.  But why would I do that?  The imagination of a three-year-old child is a truly wondrous thing; far be it from me to weigh it down with reason, to dampen it with facts.  How utterly boring.  Why not embrace the moment, try to see it through his eyes?  After all, it is becoming quite clear to me that my child can teach me far more about life than I could ever teach him.

I looked at him as he stared up at me, breathed in deeply, tried to soak in even an ounce of his innocence, his childish excitement, let it fill my heart.

"Wouldn't that be wonderful?"  The words spilled from my lips, "Then you would always have juicy, delicious apples, right at your fingertips!"

"Yeah," he said dreamily, "wouldn't that be wonderful."