Are we going to have tons of fun today?” I asked my four-year-old granddaughter as we drove to my house.
“Yeah!” she shouted from the backseat. She and I always had fun. She was three months old when my son and daughter-in-law adopted her. In the four years since, we’d spent a lot of time together. Watering the garden, reading books, feeding her daddy’s horse—anything was fun as long as we were together.
“How about some music?” I asked. I popped in a Christmas CD. It was almost December, after all.
“Oh come, all ye faithful…” came from the car stereo.
My granddaughter bobbed her head to the words. Looking at her now it was hard to imagine the life she’d lived before her adoption. A neglected baby, homeless, abandoned, left alone in the back of a car hour after hour.
I’d worried about the chilly nights she spent in the dark by herself, no one there to hold her and nurture her. I did my best to make up for that loneliness now, but could I ever really erase that early isolation?
“Oh come ye, oh come ye, to Bethlehem…” the music continued.
A tiny voice came from the backseat. “Grandma, that’s Jesus singing.”
“Jesus singing? Honey, Jesus does not make records.” Out of the mouths of babes!
“Yes, it is Jesus,” she said, assuredly. “It sounds just like him.”
I stopped at the red light and let out a good chuckle. “Now when would you have heard Jesus sing?” I wanted to know, following along with her little game.
“Four years ago,” she said. Her tone was so serious, I had to take a long look in the rearview mirror. She looked right back at me, her eyes alight with wisdom beyond her age. Four years ago, I thought. Just before she was adopted…
All those long, cold nights—my little grandbaby wasn’t alone. She had so much: a light to break the darkness, and loving arms to keep her warm.
“Oh come, let us adore him, Christ the Lord…”
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