Hiding places came easy. We were tiny, springy, packable kids, able to wedge ourselves anywhere. However, I hadn't yet learned the art of silence, so Mom usually found me via giggle echolocation. And my brother thought that simply sitting in a corner and putting his hands over his eyes made him invisible to others.
When it was Mom's turn to hide, she had an advantage over us: the ability to stay quiet. So though she was not quite as flexible or cram-able, it took us longer to find her.
I'd take one floor. My brother would take another. I'd peer in all the spots a big kid could reach. And my brother would play the baby card -- a plaintive repetition of "Mommy, where oo?" until her maternal heart relented and she revealed herself to us.
Now that I'm a grown-up, I sometimes wish I could play that baby card. How easy it would be to wander around in a sad daze, asking the one question that is sure to tug God's heartstrings -- "Where oo?" -- and sucking my thumb until the answer appears.
Too bad that's not how it works. Both God and I are too big to hide in the usual places. The game takes place in the open. No secrets, no counting. Why, then, do I still cover my eyes and think myself invisible?
Prayer #111: Where Oo?
1 ... 2 ... 3 ... 4 ... 5 ...
I'm not ready, yet here You come.
6 ... 7 ... 8 ... 9 ...
I SAID I'm not READY.
10 ... 11 ... 12 ...
You are so annoying. Play by the RULES.
13 ... 14 ...
Arrrgghhh. FINE. I'll do the best I can.
Still not ready. Yet here You are.
Am I ready now?