"Mommy, what are you and Daddy afraid of?"
Where is this coming from? He sits with book on lap, peering at me.
"Did I say we were afraid?"
"No. What are you and Daddy afraid of?" he asks again.
Still trying to determine this question's origin, wondering if it is from the book, I ask, "What are you reading?"
"I'm just looking at the book." He persists with his question, "What are you and Daddy afraid of?"
I don't want to answer. I'd rather avoid, because if I answer, then I'd have to be honest. I approach it differently. "Is this just a question?" I evade for a little while longer.
"Yes," he answers.
I silently grasp for words that aren't forming. Do I tell him a half truth or give full disclosure? Is it fair for him to know our greatest fear involves him and his siblings? Should I give light to the dark thoughts? Do I dare share?
I remain quiet and he doesn't ask anymore.
I sigh. Grateful for the short reprieve, because explaining to a four year old that our greatest fear becomes our most earnest prayer seems too much to accomplish while riding in a car.
Later, we'll sit down, face to face, and discuss how our greatest hopes, fears, and prayers can all intertwine together, but truly, we have nothing to really fear because we are in His hands.