Today, while we were at the playground with a group of other moms and kids from church, my daughter, who had been happily playing in the sandbox, trotted towards me, crying.
Crying, and with what looked like foam dripping out of her mouth.
Being the good mom I am, I ran towards her, and held out my hand. She opened her mouth, and a nice half-cup of pink and white up-chuck fell into my palm. Ugh.
But I quickly shook the spit-up off my hand, and into the grass, and proceeded to console her, to hug her, to look her over, and to make sure that nothing was really wrong. Looks like it was just playing a little too hard on a full stomach (we had just picnicked), and pretty soon she was back in the sandbox, happy as a clam. The pink in the spit-up wasn't blood, just jam. Whew. Gross, but any good parent would take the jam, any day.
I didn't think anymore of it till now, but now I'm wondering how often that's how I come to God. I'd like to think I approach our Holy God with reverence and thought and due attention, but a lot of times I come to him because, in the middle of my happy play, something went wrong, and I need someone's hand to spit up in, someone to clean me up, and someone to send me, consoled, back to what I was doing.
I am God's toddler. Seriously.
Someday, I would at least like to be his teenager.
peace of Christ to you,
Jessica
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