“I want pancakes like my mom makes, please.”
I looked down and into my five-year-old nephew’s huge brown eyes. Those long eyelashes. Be still my heart.
He had stayed the night, and I was trying to get in some mega cool auntie points. I told him I would make anything he wanted for breakfast.
So. Ok, then. “How does your mom make pancakes?” I asked him.
He said, “a whole bunch, stacked up, with real maple syrup, and whipped cream, and a strawberry on top.”
My sister does everything to perfection. I was not surprised. I put on my apron and got to work.
I made stacks and stacks of buttery, photogenic, cream-covered, strawberry-topped pancakes, and he was so happy. All smiles.
My sister called to see how everything was going. I said, “It’s going great! I made your special pancakes, and he is so happy!”
She said, “My special pancakes? What’s that?”
“Oh, he told me all about it! You know how you stack them up with real maple syrup and whipped cream and a strawberry on top?”
She said, “Umm, is that what he told you? I have never made pancakes like that in my life!”
I looked over at my nephew eating a giant stack of pancakes, whipped cream on his nose. Smiling at his strawberry. I had cut it to look like a heart. Pancakes say “love” at our house.
He looked at me. “Want some more?” I asked him. He gave me an emhatic “yes!”
These pancakes are now known as “Henry’s Special Pancakes.” He has forgotten the story, but my sister and I most certainly have not. We still laugh at his boldness, and he still loves these pancakes. And I still make them for him, years later. I made them today, and he ate two giant stacks. Nine pancakes. No kidding.
He was really little when he first asked me for them. Big enough to know what a lie is, but young enough that a fantasy seemed real. Or at least like it could be.
I write a lot about kids because I see so much of what we were created to be, still so fresh in them.
I love that my nephew called those pancakes forth as though they were a real thing in his life.
My sister and I assumed he had seen them on a pancake house sign or a commercial and dreamed that he had a mom who made them like that every day.
I should call them something else, like “Deep Thought Pancakes,” or “Amy’s Devo Pancakes,” because every time I make them now, they make me all introspective.
How many times do I sigh and complain and wish and feel sorry for myself because no one ever makes me special pancakes. Or whatever.
How often am I afraid to ask or want or wish for something because I am afraid it will be denied, that a person I love will say “no” to the desires of my heart?
Why don’t I remember more often to got to the One Who Made Me, and just ask? Why don’t I call things forth, as though they are?
I learn so much from the children in my life.
Today, I’m calling forth pancakes. I’m calling forth so many things.
With whipped cream.
And a strawberry on top.
What have you been longing to see in your life so much, that you were afraid to ask for it?
Where could you be more like a child who expects love and is not limited by “facts,” and just call a thing forth???
Take delight in the LORD, and he will give you the desires of your heart. Ps 37:4