Green Clay

He seems to think I know everything.  He asks me about the dinosaurs as if he thinks I lived when they did.  
  "Could there be any still around, maybe deep, deep in a sea somewhere?" he asks hopefully.

He says he wants to go find one someday.  He will find the last dinosaurs because
"they really could still be alive somewhere, right, Mom?"

He wants me to help him with his dinosaur, but not too much.  He wants to do it mostly himself.

It is the fine line of wanting to help and wanting to let him learn.

 I show him how to stretch the clay and blend it in together with the fingertips,
"Ooooh," he nods and tries for himself.

He tells me about them, their names and which are his favorites,

like I would explain my favorite icecream to somebody who has never had any before,
too good for words.

I can almost see his brain thinking through his eyes.

He loves this part of life.

I try to grab that love and feed the fire of his imagination and search for information to satisfy his yearning.

I pull out my Bible and show him the verses God had just shown me a few days ago as I read my Bible.

"Listen, Levi, and God will tell you about the dinosaurs that He made."

I read to him from Job 40 and 41, about the Behemoth and,
Leviathan,
 his favorite nickname,

the dragon of the sea.

"Why did God take them away?"

He asks me, sadness in his voice.

"Well, I don't know.  They sound like they were pretty big and scary.  Maybe he felt like it was time to let man live without such dangerous animals."  I hoped my answer would ease him.

"Well, I wouldn't be scared," he boasted.

"I wish they were still around."

I had to admit that this was one instance where I disagreed with him,

but understood his pain at the small resource of knowledge he had for the thing he loved most.

One thing I knew, I admired his love for life and fire to know.
"Someday, Levi, maybe you can go out and find out more about dinosaurs,"
I reassured him, as I saw the twinkle in his eyes.

"And you can come home and teach me."