The doorbell rings. It's the sweet little girl from across the street, peering anxiously through the sidelights on the front door, her hands tightly griping a folded piece of notebook paper. "I want to give this to A", she says, eyes bright with the anticipation of seeing my daughter open her carefully drawn artwork. "Ok", I say, trying to think how to delicately tell her that A had other friends over today--big girl friends, friends that probably wouldn't want to play the games a kindergartner would play. She followed me through the house to the basement, where we could hear the girls doing what girls do best--giggling, laughing, and carrying on. A met us on the steps, looking at me with that look. She handed over her precious gift, and as A unfolded the paper with it's pink hearts and green grass, I could tell she didn't want to say I can't play today.
"Can I stay and play?" Her eyes were downcast, her hands clasped at her chest, waiting.
We both knew the question would come, and as I tried to come up with a way to say no, A grabbed her hand and pulled her down the steps. No hesitation.
Truth. It was innocent. It was palpable. It was lovely and pure. It was poured out all over that sweet girl's pink hearts, a truth that came from her heart, a truth that said I love you and I'm glad you're my friend.
Linking up with Lisa Jo Baker today for Five Minute Friday. Join us!