Death and Flowers

Since Mark's Dad passed away a few years ago, we've had the where-do-you-go-after-you-die talk with Mac a few times.

He doesn't seem to fear death at all.  In fact, when I went on and on about a white hair I found in my eyebrow (okay I've been pulling white hairs out of my head since Belen was born ... but white eyebrows!?  Please!), Mac interrupted with, "Mom, you gettin' old now?"
"Just a little bit old, but yes."
"Oh.  Okay, you going to die soon?  And go be with Jesus?"
I quickly explained that no, I would be around for a long long time, I was just going to also have white hairs for a long long time.

This discussion seems to have calmed any worry he has for people who have moved on, and has also come in handy for squished bugs and wilted flowers.

The other day I found him picking all the dead flowers off of our plants out front and piling them in the middle of our sidewalk.  "It's time to say a prayer," he said.  He then pointed a finger to the sky and said, "Here, Jesus.  Make sure you take care of these guys, okay?"

And you know what, I'm sure He will.