Today, I got to do something incredible.
Let me just tell you people. I have a lot of love in my life, but there is something crazy special about walking up to a doorway and having a miniature human catch sight of you and smile. Little ones don’t know anything about hiding emotion–no really, they have no clue–and they make no allowances. They see you, and they grin. They see you, and they begin to run. They will jump up and down at my feet until I scoop them up. They allow me to smother them in kisses, to breathe in the baby-wipes-and-lavender of their skin, to bury my head in the soft downy of their heads. There’s something so special about this sort of unabashed adoration that I, in turn, have no qualms about wiping their butts. It’s a beautiful thing.
That was really a tangent, because the whole point was that I got to do this special thing and then go worship God. The Lord has used this special area of my life–the place where I find myself dancing a baby until great, big eyes become so heavy that a head lands on my shoulder–to teach me all about His love. Every week, I walk away thinking, “You’d do that for me? You’d wipe my butt?” And they’re not even my kids.
I was in church, sitting off to the side, my mind blessedly free. In the middle of worship, I heard His voice: “Can you trust me like that?” Like what?
Again: “Can you trust me like they trust you?” I was sort of confused. It was as if He was comparing me to Himself. Wait, what? What are you asking here? But then I got it: I was comparing myself to the wrong thing. He was asking me this: Can you put on the innocence of a one-year-old? Can you catch sight of me and allow the change to be all over your face, until it hits your legs and you begin to run? And will you jump up and down at my feet until I pick you up? Can you let me smother you in kisses? Will you let me clean you up when you need it?
“And He called a little child to Himself and put him in the midst of them, and said, ‘Truly I say to you, unless you repent (change, turn about) and become like little children [trusting, lowly, loving, forgiving], you can never enter the kingdom of heaven [at all]. Whoever will humble himself therefore and become like this little child [trusting, lowly, loving, forgiving] is greatest in the kingdom of heaven.'” –Matthew 18:2-4
“I trust You,” I said, over and over, making the choice to do that.
Oh, Jesus has been hard at work on me these past few months; He has refined me and whispered to me and shaped me and plucked me up and danced around with me. A year ago, I thought I had tasted too much goodness for there to be more, but I had no idea. He’s taught me all sorts of things, and I’m so, so expectant that He’ll keep on. I’m in this thing (this thing being life) in a way that demands He do that, or else I’ll fall apart. My life is such that if He doesn’t show up–if He doesn’t keep His promises–my world will be in shambles.
I like it that way. It’s humbling and awe-inspiring all at the same time. But I’ll tell you what: It demands trust. But oh people, we couldn’t put our trust in anything better.
“But I have trusted, leaned on, and been confident in Your mercy and loving-kindness; my heart shall rejoice and be in high spirits in Your salvation.” –Psalm 13:5
All this to say that I hope you can stir up your own one-year-old-ness. I hope you will catch sight of Him and run. I hope you will allow yourself to be picked up, to be smothered with adoration, to be wiped clean. I hope, friends, that you will allow His peace to dance you right to sleep. And I hope that you will trust: The best is yet to come.