Somewhere between the neurons firing in her brain and the air rushing past her voice box, my daughter has named me Dada. She figured this out a few weeks ago and I have to say that it's a bit mind-blowing. I don't want the newness to wear off. At some point my new name will probably change into "daddy" or just "dad". At some point I know that she'll repeat it endlessly to steal my attention. At some point I know other words will creep in around my name. Nouns and verbs and participles will come in line as they tend to do when one grasps and masters a language. But for now, I am Dada. I am subject and object in perfect one-word sentences. And when Eve says my new name she's got my attention and I respond.
Eve calling my name makes me think about prayer. Sometimes I want to pray more like a toddler speaks. Somewhere in the journey of faith we are rightly taught to cast all our cares upon the Lord. We can tell God anything, anywhere, at any time and we can lay all of our burdens at God's feet and trust that God will listen. This is the great thing about having Jesus as an intercessor. But sometimes I wonder if I use the language I have mastered with all the nouns, participles, verbs, subjects and objects as more of an intelligence report about me rather than a prayer to God. Crying "Abba" in prayer seems to make more sense now that I'm Dada.
