Lost?

I once got lost two blocks from my house; I was six or seven, walking a mile home from school. There were no curbs in that part of town; the grass and the street kind of melted into each other, with a slight dip to keep water in the border between. The Seventh Day Adventist Church, a white building a little larger than a house, had their sprinkler going. I got slightly damp, and then watched the water as it slowly oozed across the dry dirt and slight grass of that dip. It progressed in a leisurely fashion, with ants ducking out of the way and running off in another direction. An occasional small bug was picked up until it could grab a grass stem. The dirt had cracks and small canyons in it; the water rushed into these first and only came out when it had filled them. I was fascinated. I must have stayed there over an hour.

Suddenly someone shouted. I looked up to see my brother, age fourteen, biking towards me very fast and shouting. He had been sent out to find me; he was the search party! I reluctantly left the infant river and went home.

When my own children wanted to watch the water flow, dig in the dirt, make mud dams, I let them. We walked up and down in the rain, stomping puddles and wading until we got cold. Then I would strip the children in the back porch and throw them into a hot bath while I rinsed the mud out of their clothes. It was so worth it. They loved it and so did I.