Little House

For the last several months Natalie and I have immersed ourselves in all things Little House. We've been pouring through the books, cracking open the seventh in the series, "Little Town on the Prairie," just last week. Surprisingly, it's my first time through the famous books as well, making it an extra special treat to explore the world of Laura Ingalls Wilder together.

I look forward to curling up on the couch together each evening. We wrap ourselves in a blanket, snuggle against a pillow and turn the page to see what adventure lies ahead. Natalie listens intently, often staring off into a corner of the room as I read. She lies motionless for a few sentences, hanging on every word. Then come the questions: Why did Laura do that? Where is Pa going now? Are they going to be OK?

We cry together at the death of Jack the dog. We rush through pages in Indian Territory to see if they'll survive the prairie fire. We thank God for our full dinner just minutes ago while reading about their hunger during the long winter. Sometimes, we even make ourselves steaming mugs of tea to sip, remembering Pa's favorite drink.

I know I would have loved the books as a young child.

I also know I love them even more because I'm sharing them with my own daughter. It's an almost magical world the two of us can peer into each evening and talk about each day.

It's an experience I'll always remember.