One day a month or so ago Alex and I were in Publix, and completely out of the blue he asked me if he will go to heaven one day. Because I was a little distracted by the fact that at some point pot roasts have started to cost about the same as a cute pair of shoes from Target, I sort of off-handedly replied, “Well, yes, buddy, if you have asked Jesus into your heart, then yes, you will go to heaven.”

And then Alex got very quiet, and after about a full minute of Deep Soul Searching, he screamed “JEEEEEEEEEEEE-SUS! COME INTO MY HEART!” right there next to the pot roasts, only he said it not like he recognized his fallen heart’s need for a Savior but more like he was aggravated with Jesus for not sharing His toys.

So while I wasn’t completely sure that the little man was clear on some of the more fundamental doctrinal issues, I was entirely certain that Jesus had good reason to take issue with his tone.

But then, about five minutes later, when I was seized by TOE CRAMPS, of all things – toe cramps so severe that I could not imagine that my left foot would ever function properly again – I told the little man that I had to stop for a second before THE PAIN MADE MY KNEES BUCKLE, and he responded by saying, “Mama, I would like to tell a prayer for you.”

I said that would be wonderful, so we bowed our heads right there in front of the dairy case and he put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Dear God. Please help Mama’s toes to feel better in Publix so that she can wear her shoe. In Jesus’ Name. Amen.” And he was so deeply sincere about the whole thing that I wondered for a split second if his profession of faith over in the meat department wasn’t the real deal after all.

I’ll probably never know exactly what was going on in Alex’s heart and mind that day in the grocery store, but I do know that he’s been chock-full-o-curiosity ever since. So we’ve spent last few weeks talking through all sorts of four year-old questions about God, and while part of me thinks that four is too young for a child to have any real grasp of sin and sacrifice and atonement and resurrection, a much bigger part of me knows that there is no faith as simple and profound as the faith of a child.

I also know that this is the time to plant those seeds of faith and then water them as much as we possibly can so that the little man’s roots will grow deep, so that one day he will be able, as Paul wrote, “to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—that [he] may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God.”

And so, we answer Alex’s questions. We talk about God. We talk about the joys of knowing Him, of serving Him, of trusting Him. We pray that he sees evidence of those joys as he watches his mama and daddy work out their faith every single day.

And it has been, quite simply, one of the sweetest times of my whole life.

Before Alex was born, I imagined that this child whose face I had not yet seen would sit with me at a desk while I carefully read passages of Scripture aloud. Everything would be Perfectly Orderly; I would Teach With Care while my child Listened Attentively. Then we would clasp our hands together and begin the walk toward faith with lockstep precision, only stopping long enough for him to surrender to whatever calling God might have on his life.

Because I wasn’t idealistic or anything.

But the reality, as anybody with a little one knows, is absolutely nothing like that. The daily process of teaching and leading a precious little heart is about as methodical as herding a room full of cats. And you know what else? It is hard. On every single level. So much of parenting uncovers our own imperfections, and we are constantly being humbled, broken and refined in our own lives while we try to nurture the little lives that have been entrusted to us. Did I mention that it’s hard?

There are days when I’m really disappointed in myself as a mother; I get so tired of struggling to balance the things I need to do with the things I want to do, and as a result of that I am confronted with the reality of my selfishness over and over again. It’s a mighty good thing indeed that I don’t have to parent in my own strength, because I’ll tell you right now that I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t last a day.

But the rewards of parenting? They really are huge. They’re immeasurable. They’re eternal. And the longer I’m a mama, the more I find that the most teachable moments in terms of faith don’t require much organization or planning on my part. They don’t necessarily happen while we’re sitting in a church service or when we’re Reviewing Memory Verses With Great Intention, though certainly I believe that God uses those things.

For me the most breathtaking moments – the times when D and I are both able to share our faith with the most sincerity and transparency – are when Alex picks up a maple leaf from the ground and then says, with wonder, “GOD MADE THIS!” Or when he runs into the house after being outside and says, “Mama! I missed you! And I talked to Jesus while I played!” Or when he’s sick with a stomach virus and says, through his tears, “Mama? Will you always take care of me? Will God always take care of me?”

Or even when he puts his hand on my shoulder in the middle of a crowded grocery store and prays for my toe cramps while we stand next to six different brands of sour cream.

In many ways motherhood is absolutely nothing like I imagined but so much more than I expected. And for me, right now, the greatest joy is sharing the Greatest Joy with a four year-old who may get a little cloudy on the theological details – but whose heart is wide open.

I cannot imagine any greater privilege.