I sat a squirming one-and-a-half year old down in his highchair and slipped on his elephant bib, while my wife dished out steaming lasagna onto our plates. We sat down on either side of Elliott, took his cubby hands in ours, and bowed our heads to thank the Giver of all good gifts.

I took a bite of pasta and tried to chew it on the right side of mouth to keep it away from the sore on my lip. Some of the tomato sauce got on it anyway and I winced.

I offered Elliott a bite.

“No-no.” He said, pushing the spoon away.

I looked at Tara and rolled my eyes. That was one of his favorite words. No. Along with dog and moo. He wasn’t speaking in sentences yet, but was adding more words to his vocabulary every day.

Elliott ate a little, but then whined and begged for anything that wasn’t on his plate.

I was not feeling well. I wasn’t sick, but I felt like I was about to get sick. Because of that, and the sore in my mouth, I was not feeling especially gracious. I offered occasional bites to Elliott while I ate, which he habitually refused.

When we finished our supper, and Elliott was finished with the little that he deemed edible, we slipped on our shoes and jackets and headed out the door to prayer meeting.

At church, I sat in my prayer group with Elliott on my lap. Elliott squirmed and fussed and reached for a toy another child had. The child kindly offered the tractor to Elliott, which he took and played with happily for a while. Then he pulled the scoop off the tractor. I clipped it back on. A minute later it was off again and on the floor.

“You may not pull it off.” I picked it up and put it back on.

It came off again. This was not working. I handed the tractor back to the child, which did not please Elliott. I found some toys in the diaper bag and handed him a pop-it, but he pushed it away. I gave him a truck and he began driving it across my leg.

My prayer groups’ discussion time came to an end, and the prayer time began. We prayed about missionaries, lost souls, and the weather. The hushed atmosphere, bowed heads, and closed eyes did not lend toward making things go any smoother with my toddler.

Elliott dropped his truck on the floor. I flicked his hand.

“No, you may not drop it,” I whispered sternly. I sighed and bit my lip. No, what was I thinking! Not on the sore spot. My mouth ached and my thoughts didn’t fit the reverent mood of the room.

I put it back in the diaper bag and pulled out some magnetic blocks. He pulled them apart, then threw one onto the floor. It hit the floor with a clatter and slid under the chair of the man next to me.

“No,” I told Elliott through clenched teeth.

I tossed the other magnet into the diaper bag. Elliott fussed and wriggled. I held him tight, trying to make him sit still.

Wham! He threw back his head into my face, right on the sore in my mouth. Pain. Burning pain. My mouth felt on fire. I squeezed my eyes shut and squeezed Elliott even tighter, as my lip began to swell. The last few minutes of prayer time was a blur of Elliott squirming and fussing, while my frustration, and lip, continued to grow.

The drive home was quiet, as I nursed my irritable attitude and my throbbing mouth.

At home, Tara took Elliott upstairs to get him ready for bed, while I made a sandwich for my lunch the next day. I replayed the evenings events in my mind as I scraped out a nearly empty mayonnaise jar and slapped on some lunch meat and cheese. I didn’t feel like saying goodnight to Elliott and contemplated going directly to bed. The way I felt, I just needed to get some sleep. But I knew that if I went straight to bed, I wouldn’t be able to rest well.

Tara was putting pajamas on Elliott as I walked into his bedroom.

“Goodnight, Elliott.” I patted his blond hair and managed a weak smile.

“Tell daddy I love you.” Tara said, making the ‘I love you’ sign with her hand. Elliott looked at me with his big blue eyes while he stuck out his thumb and twisted his wrist, trying very hard to copy her.

She lifted his index and pinky, showing him how, but he couldn’t quite do it. He looked down at his hand and back up at me.

Then, in his soft, lisping voice, Elliott said, “I ove ou, da-ddy.”

Who knew that four words could cut a heart so deep and heal it at the same time. I wrapped my arms around him and hugged him tight.

“I love you, too.”