In my upper thirties, edging closer to forty faster than I would like to admit, I have learned that keeping up with my son is both exhausting and deeply formative. He has a way of pulling me out of routine and back into wonder, often without saying a word. Life, when viewed through his eyes, feels less efficient but far more alive.

My son, now in third grade, is still holding onto an innocence that feels increasingly fragile in the world around him. Creativity comes naturally to him. He is the child who collects everything, including things most people would immediately throw away. Old wire, broken bits of clay pottery, random fragments with no obvious purpose all find their way into carefully guarded bins in his room. To him, nothing is useless. Every object carries potential. Every discarded thing might one day become essential.

Jesus once pointed to a child and said that unless we turn and become like little children, we will never enter the kingdom of heaven. It is a statement that feels increasingly countercultural with age. Adulthood trains us to optimize, categorize, discard, and move on. Children, by contrast, linger. They notice. They imagine possibility where others see clutter.

Lately, I find myself slowing down just to observe his mind at work. There is something beautiful in the way he processes the world. It is thoughtful, inventive, methodical, and yes, sometimes untamed. He reminds me that creativity is not always neat. Often, it is found in the spaces we rush past or try to clean up too quickly.

Scripture tells us that we are fearfully and wonderfully made, formed with intention and care by a Creator who delights in intricacy. We are made in His image, not as replicas, but as reflections. There is a wildness to that image, a goodness that cannot be fully controlled or domesticated. Like Aslan in the stories, God is good, but hardly tame. In many ways, my son mirrors that same spirit. Curious, unpredictable, deeply good, and never easily boxed in.