There are some things I miss about my two daughters being small, and some things I don’t. What I don’t miss, is this thing called “colic” that makes babies cry all day and night, without an off switch. It seemed like the only way to get them to stop, was to duct tape them into their car seats, and drive around the block about 543 times.

I don’t miss the smell of poopy diapers, or changing them in the middle of the night. (Oh wait, that...was my wife, but I bet she doesn’t miss it either.)

I don’t miss going into debt, over throwing birthday parties for one year olds, who will never remember a thing you did. You know the ones, where they don’t even know how to eat chocolate cake yet? So, you accidently press the whole cake to their toothless chops, to get the best shot for Facebook. (We did that, and even put the chocolate messy picture on a t-shirt, because there was no Facebook back then.) After 21 years, I’ve still got that faded shirt, and it fits me like a glove...a very, very tight glove.

But what I do miss is I always felt I was needed. I loved the gooey feelings of them falling asleep on my shoulders, drooling on my best t-shirts. I missed tossing them on my shoulders and trotting around the living room pretending to be a horse, (Sorry: “Horsey”.)

But, I think the thing I miss the most is praying for, and with, my kids. I still always pray with and for them, but it was different back then. It seemed more real and unrehearsed.

I loved hearing my two-foot-high girls, pray for anything and everything. Their prayers had no limits and no logic. Their prayers came with no borders or boundaries. If their noggins could think it, they would pray it. I encouraged them to pray big and small, confirming God hears it all. (Although reminding them: hearing it all is different than answering it all as we wish.) Kneeling beside her bed, my daughter occasionally asked, “Can God do anything?”

Of course for this one, I had no need to consult the heavens or a TV preacher.

“Yes he can, honey.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes honey. I’m not only your dad, I’m a pastor, and pastors know about this type of thing.” This was like knocking in a one-inch putt, easy peasy, a gimmie. This was an open layup in an empty gym.

“Okay dad. I would like to pray the devil can get saved.”

“What?!?”

“Yes, I think he needs to be saved, daddy! I heard he’s a pretty bad guy. He really, really, needs God. Can God do that, can God save the devil?”

I tried to give her a theological explanation how that probably ain’t going to happen, even if a certain “place” does freeze over. She was looking at me.

“Yes or no, dad?”

“Well honey...umm...ahh...it’s getting late. Good night.”

I remembered that she really believed anything was possible. She really didn’t know a lot about God, but she knew a lot about me. If I said God could, or would do something, she would believe