The Child Who Leads Us
One Final Thought about the Stories that Stick Around
There’s a line from an ancient text that always shows up this time of year. About wolves and lambs. Lions and oxen. Peace nudging its way in places it’s not supposed to be.
And tucked inside it is this strange, beautiful phrase:
“And a little child shall lead them.*”
*”Them,” meaning the wolves, lions (pretty sure a leopard joins the mix)…basically, the kinds of carnivorous creatures you definitely wouldn’t trust around your kid.
What I love about that image is that it’s not a commandment telling us what to do. Instead, it’s a picture meant to help us imagine what’s possible.
So many of the stories that have shaped me, especially around Christmas, work this way, whether it’s Charlie Brown, The Muppets, or Dr. Seuss.
They don’t argue their way into meaning. They show it to us, simply enough that a child could carry it.
This year, I had a small, unexpected Christmas gift.
I realized that Bill Watterson, the creator of Calvin and Hobbes, lives about two hours from me.
That discovery did something strange. First, it made me wonder where the line is between stalking and, you know, just lingering around a neighborhood in close proximity waiting for someone to show up.
But secondly, it sent me back.
I grabbed the Complete Calvin & Hobbes Anthology sitting on my shelf (every house should have this) and started rereading the strips to my son before bedtime.
One night, one panel from a single strip jumped out and has since lodged itself in my heart.
It’s Calvin and Hobbes running into summer, a flag in hand, a shovel over their shoulder, charging into the great unknown of their own backyard.
Pure adventure.
That image has become this quiet little symbol for me. Of childhood, yes, but also of the kind of life I still want to live, especially lately.
This week alone, the world felt unbearably heavy. So many unnecessary losses. So many headlines competing for our attention. It feels like every morning requires a small, exhausting decision about which tragedy to hold first.
In these moments, I’ve begun to notice something in myself. I don’t long for more information. I long for formation.
For reminders of who we are. And who we could still be.
If Advent is the ache for a new possibility, Adventure is the act of stepping toward that possibility with courage, becoming someone new in the process.
There’s something about Calvin and Hobbes that feels kind of like that ancient Christmas text. A boy and a tiger. A kid and a carnivore. Innocence and danger, somehow learning to run together.
A child leading, not because they know more, but because they see differently.
Maybe that’s why the stories that stay with us don’t necessarily shout, tell us what to do, or demand certainty.
They just remind us of some kind of possibility.
As this year closes, I don’t have resolutions to offer.
Just a possibility.
That in a world very good at capturing our attention, we might make room for the things that shape who we’re becoming.
That we’d tell the kinds of stories that help us see again. That bring joy, courage, and wonder back into reach.
And that, every once in a while, we’d let the child lead us.
PS. Reculture: Live in LA is fast approaching on Jan 22 & 23, and there are still tickets available. I honestly haven’t been this excited about something in a while. This is a rare opportunity to gather for an intimate, in-person conversation with folks like Latif Nasser of RadioLab, Father Greg Boyle, and other reculturers to explore the story we’re in and consider what it might look like to step into a better one. It’s a space to listen, reflect, and, if you choose, actively participate in the dialogue. I’d love to see you there!
I love the thoughts on this. Beautiful.