I spent much of the latter half of the day with the holiest person I know - my two-year-old, Stephen.
Sure, he's spoiled and he throws temper tantrums, but he's baptised and way under 7, so, therefore, saint.
Nor are these arbitrary theological considerations. Have you ever watched a little child closely? I still see it in my five-year-old, Rebecca, too: this amazing, innocent appreciation for the world that God has made. It perplexed Augustine how people could be so fascinated with miracles when all of life is only distinguished from the miraculous by the latter's rarity, and nothing more. This is how my two little ones look at everything: like a miracle. They note and admire everything: from the way the light passes through trees onto the sidewalk, to a motorcycle racing by. And they take people as they are: they love dad whether he is at his fattest or his most fit. Rebecca is interested to see pictures of our friend, "Mr. Prendergast," and Stephen wants to see Jo-Jo and Na-Na, whatever the occasion. To Stephen we live in every house we pass by; Rebecca lives in the world of 'Wouldn't it be funny ifs..." To Stephen all desserts are 'pie'; Rebecca rejoices in candy.
There is no privilege greater than that of being a father, no consolation sweeter than knowing that God lives in this precious, precious child, and you are not taking it for granted. There is no 'I wish I could turn the clock back and not failed to have missed that' when you are sharing a stroll on a warm Summer's evening with a saint who is fascinated by a discarded apple core.