I lay beside you under the dragonfly quilt. We've said goodnight to the moon and all the cars and trucks and things that go. The room is almost dark, but I can still see your sleepy face.
"Can I hear your heartbeat?" I ask. A smile, a nod, then I lay my ear over your small chest. "Lub-dub, lub-dub," I whisper, in time with the beats. You always find that funny.
"Do you want to hear mine?"
I jump out of bed, do a little dance to get things pumping, then settle back in. You lay your head down, and I put my arms around you.
"Can you hear it?"
You nod. Pause.
"Is that your heart?" you ask, wide-eyed.
"The one that God gave you?"
Yes, yes, yes.
How is it possible to feel my heart beating in two bodies? How can I give adequate thanks for these three year old kisses and chubby arms around my neck? How can so much wonder be wrapped up in a dragonfly quilt?
Sometimes prayer is simply this, quiet breaths of awe.