A thing happened this morning. My three year old didn’t feel brave. She did not want to walk straight into her class, scoop up a plastic baby, and start organizing her peers. She wanted to hold Mommy’s hand for just a little bit longer.
Today, I let her. We walked down the hall and talked about her fears and at no point did I say, “Yes, you are going to your class because that’s what we do on Sunday mornings. Why are you acting like this? You love your class!” It’s possible that this has been my reaction in the past. Thinking about it right now makes me want to cry.
I had another place to be – I was going to sit down with my coffee and write for a whole hour. This luxury is unheard of in my world. I could have been selfish. I kind of wanted to be, but someone else inside of me urged me to choose differently.
I’m so grateful for His voice.
My heart is heavy with my own self-involvement. I’m grieved by it, ashamed of it, and so over it. She’s three, for Pete’s sake! Answer her questions. Hold her hand. Smile at her often. Kiss her cheeks. Smell her skin. Tell her she’s lovely. Forget your coffee and your writing and your “you” time, you little twit.
God is doing a number on me. He’s breaking this heart of mine – for my babies, for the old man walking to church in the heavy Florida heat in his Sunday best, for my neighbor across the street who just needs a listening ear, for my brother, for illegal immigrants, for the teen on the third row with a severe case of turrets, for the men behind the mounds of barb wire, for the pastor across the country who is working to change the heartbeat of a church so that it looks outside of its walls instead of swimming around within itself, for my husband and what he cares about, for my church, for our nation.
I feel my center shifting.
I am scared slap silly because I know that this is only the beginning.
I am humbled to be the object of my perfect God’s pursuit.