But first, let me ask you three questions

At a family style Italian dinner at a long table in front of the warm ovens at Chicago’s Eataly on a cold, January night, I leaned over and asked my friend Tom to please pass the brussels sprouts our party of eight souls was sharing.

Simple question, I thought.

He paused and smiled that smile of his.

“I’ll share the brussels sprouts,” he said, “but first, let me invite you to answer three questions.”

Another pause.

“Question number one: How many teeth does a horse have?”

We laughed.

Others at our end of the table leaned in as I badly failed the test. I guessed 100.

We listened as Tom explained that when his granddaughters ask for ice cream, or to stay up late, or to go to the park, he’ll always stop them and say, “First, let me invite you to answer three questions.”

The questions are his way of connecting with his grandkids. They step out of the moment to ponder what Grandpa has asked them. It’s a method Tom employs to nurse deeper relationship with these children he adores.

They learn more about each other, of course, and as importantly, they learn about themselves. They also discover other important things — like how many teeth a horse has.

Tom is wisely encouraging his granddaughters to slow down. Think more deeply. Is the question you’re asking really the question you want to ask?

Pondering his questions are like a stroll through a quiet ancient forest. By asking, he’s offering his hand to his young granddaughters who are racing down life’s autobahn at the speed of light, and they don’t even have driver’s licenses.

The questions require them to relinquish their cell phones, tablets, and devices. They have to look up from their screens to rightly step over the threshold of the journey his questions inspire.

A light dawns. A smile wrinkles across cherubic faces. Everyone is suddenly present in the same room sharing the same moment. This is a modern-day miracle.

Tom masterfully captures their attention and reels them gently in with one of the oddball questions on which he’s been cogitating all day for a moment like this.

In a few seconds, everyone is leaning in, delighted with the conversations these innocuous queries ignite.

One: How many teeth does a horse have?

Two: If you could take a magic balloon ride, where would you go?

Three: What is the meaning of life?

Next time your frazzled beloved asks you to pass the brussels sprouts, consider my wise friend Tom.

“I’d be glad to pass you the brussels sprouts, my love.”

Pause.

“But first, let me invite you to answer three questions.”

(Author’s note: The horse will normally have 24 deciduous teeth, emerging in pairs, and eventually pushed out by the permanent teeth, which normally number between 36 and 40.)