“Am I cool, mom?”

I was standing there, looking into the bathroom at my most tender child while he sat on the toilet, and I responded like any mom would– like I thought he would want me to respond.

“Yeah, buddy, you’re one of the coolest people I know!”

Silence. So much toilet paper.

“I don’t think I’m cool. I just want to have friends who aren’t cool, like me. Because I like who I am! And I just want them to like who they are. And I could like who I am.”

“You know what, you’re totally right and that actually makes more sense. I’m not cool either and it feels really good to be around people who just like who we are. Wow, that’s a really wise thing you said.”

Flush. Silence. So much toilet paper.

I love this kid so much it hurts. I’m wild about him. Tonight after family devotions, he preached a sermon in some of the straightest language I’ve ever heard about how the meanness inside of us is violent toward other people. His delivery is at times hard to follow because he weaves in and out of teaching and illustrations (accompanied by an entire scene acted out where he is all the characters). That’s how it was tonight, but every time Pat or I thought to insert a teaching point or help him along, he just kept right on going and by the end of his rambling we were both affirmed with wide eyes, “Wow, that’s really incredible.”

The funny thing is, he’s asked this before about being cool and I always emphasize just how cool he, in fact, truly is. But I know now we weren’t speaking the same language. He said “cool” and I heard “that invisible quality that pushes some people to the fringes and keeps some of them close to the center” and assumes that the center is where we all want to be.

I learned a lesson about language, looking at my boy on the toilet tonight. I need to listen more. Ask more questions. Make less assumptions. And, if I’m looking for it, the lesson might be for my spirit, too.