This is the second of a loose series loosely called Blockpile Meditations. Series, thou art loosed. Part one is here.
—– —– —–
Our four-year-old son is getting it. He has built his castle of blocks and he is smiling. It is tall and imposing. It is lovely. But an enemy lurks on the edges of this Eden.
The baby crawls in, all wide eyes and slobbery smiles. It is almost as if the 9 months she spent in the womb were made up of watching training videos on how to deftly bring down a well-built tower of wooden blocks. She instinctively reaches for the cornerstone and, like Jericho, the rest is history.
Like every baby in the history of ever, our little girl has no trouble getting excited for the tumbling crash of built-up blocks. Every kid gets it.
But I want more for her.
Today, I spent fifteen minutes working with her on building. It’s slow going, but now she’s clapping and cheering herself on every occasion of block-upon-block success. The tower rises inches in the air, like the very early days in Babel. We are speaking the same language.
She is slowly learning to love the slow work of construction.
It’s easy to get a thrill from tearing things down. It’s harder to foster an appreciation for the slow and careful labor of building things up. But that’s a marker of maturity, that Godward goal for which we aim these arrows of ours.
Here in the block pile lies a great opportunity for practice runs, for training habits, for cultivating an eye for construction.
Because people are also easy to tear down and hard to build up. Especially when the people are blockheads. (We all are, sometimes, right?)
Kindling imagination for Kingdom anticipation happens with toys before towns.