Lord, bless my friends this morning with the wisdom of four-year-olds.
May they maximize all yawns and stretches to the utmost reaches of their spines.
May they ask for snuggles and receive them.
May they insist on a particular blue cup and a flourish of underpants that render them invincible.
May they gasp over snow.
May they ask if today is finally the day we get to plant the garden.
May they sing sitting on their toilets, and contrive sound effects fitting for the transportation of the mundane.
When they are hurt, may they sit and cry a little honest cry. Then may they rise whole and healed, forgiving, sliding down stairs on their bottoms and laughing because all descents to earth go, "Thump, thump, thump."
May they eat chocolate for breakfast. Just a little.
If their hair is sticky uppy, if their socks don't match, if they have food on their faces, and if sometimes they mess their pants, let them not be so distracted by these banal details that they miss dragons in the woods and sailboats in the clouds.
May they beg to go outside until they get there.
May they dream about what they want to be when they grow up and chase it.
May they awaken -- smelling, hearing, seeing, touching, tasting the whole world anew.
May they play with paint, and markers, and notes, and words, and stacking blocks, and bubbles, and plastic crowns, and every such liturgy and sacrament suited to artists, and singers, and dancers, and makers of tall towers and good rhymes.
May they jump into the arms of God as blithely as beauty never doubting love.