Daughter Kate and her boys spent the afternoon with us. It was almost unbearably humid, so I retreated to my air-conditioned bedroom where Nathaniel (7 months) was sleeping in a portable crib. Before long David (5) joined me on the bed. I read three books to him before he began constructing a tent with blankets. The baby slept for an hour and a half, then began to whimper. David kindly handed him a toy and put the pacifier in his mouth, a process that was repeated many times before Nathaniel began to protest earnestly. I wasn’t ready to give up the cool air, so I jotted a note to Kate on a scrap piece of paper I keep beside the bed.
I wrote, “Kate, Nathaniel wants his mommy,” and asked David to take it to his mother.
This is what the boys looked like that month as they played in the Narthex at church.
David returned, saying he had given her the note, and resumed his cycle of playing and trying to keep Nathaniel happy. After a while I scooped the baby up and headed downstairs. Kate was sound asleep on the sofa. Between her thumb and forefinger was my note. When I told John the story a day later, he laughed and said someone had probably warned David not to wake his mother. He had delivered the note, alright, but it had no visible effect on that sleeping form.