An afternoon filled to the brim

I spent an afternoon a few weeks ago with my four year old grand daughter, just the two of us, times like that far too rare because of the long miles between our homes.  We pulled ingredients out of the pantry and mixed together cookie dough of her own choosing, oatmeal chocolate chip.  With a little help on measuring, she poured the ingredients in a big pink bowl, turned on the mixer, and watched the big paddle blade whirring around and around.

We talked about snow and pre-school and God.  We also listened for her little brother who was taking a nap.  The house was silent except for the whirring of the mixer, our voices, and the furnace clicking on and off.  It was like we were far away from the ordinary.

She scooped cookie dough onto the big flat pans.  The baking sheets went into the oven, one after another.

And when it was all the baking was done, we colored a white piece of construction paper with every crayon in her cup, alternating colors, staying mostly outside of the lines, and discovering the Spanish names on the wrappers for colors that we had known only in English.

The counter was littered with bowls and spoons and pans.  She pulled up the step stool and washed the bowls with a little scrubby thing, her sleeves pulled up, warm soapy water puddling in the sink.  I rinsed and dried.  And I think she enjoyed that part the best.

The afternoon slid by.  And the word hurry was banished for awhile.  No rushing, no one right way to do things, the cookies differed in shape and size.  The sun poured in the window on that cold January day.  And for a little while, we could enjoy being just a little girl and her gramma.

The next day, I had to drive six hours home, all too aware that each mile separated us.  I know that at four years old, she is unlikely to remember that quiet afternoon at all.  But she will know a little bit more what love looks like.

And this gramma will  never forget.

...my cup runneth over.

                      Psalm 23.5