A Prayer for the Sunlight Thrower

The girl in diapers was walking away.

Walking was still new to her, and she wasn’t going fast down the sidewalk. But she had managed to go far enough that her father on the stoop called her back.

The girl turned to her father. Then she toddled to him with her arms open wide and her mouth wide open and this large, delighted, “AhhhhhHHHHHHHH!” pouring out of it that got louder and louder as she got closer and closer to her father.

This was undiluted enthusiasm. No restrictions or hesitations. And her father on the stoop lit up, as if the girl in diapers had thrown sunlight all over him.

So, a little prayer for the sunlight thrower: May you never let life in the world scrape away your enthusiasm. May you greet people with your arms open wide and large, loud delight pouring out of you. And may the people you greet be reminded that they can throw sunlight, too.

The father on the stoop held his daughter tight for a moment. Soon, he would turn her loose back on the sidewalk. She would walk away. He would call her back.

And she – who was still learning how to walk, but who already knew how to live out her enthusiasm – would turn to him, run to him, and throw sunlight all over him.

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