We held a small memorial for a little creature whose ability to receive love taught us all a big lesson: to love is to name is to care is to keep. It is to mourn and to cry, too; and it is to continue to create and care about the living and the dying and the not-yet-born.
One does not need to do anything remarkable to be an object of love. One only needs to be that which it is – cat, boy, mom, dad, human, alive.
The point is, parents, we have to realize that we have less and less to do with their holiness when we want Jesus to become more and more important to them. We have to trust God as our kids learn the unforced rhythms of grace because it isn’t a free-pass from anything that hurts them. They will be tested and bested, bedraggled and beat up. This grace school is a school of hard knocks.
Isn’t learning to walk yoked with Jesus the most amazing thing I’ve discovered yet in my own life?
And don’t I want more than anything for my kids to choose this full-abundant-scary-good-life?
Jesus welcomed the children. We all remember that story well. The disciples, men caught up in the ideas and ideals of their man-centered world, wanted to shoo them off into ambiguity, to keep the children unimportant and disposable. But Jesus wouldn’t have it.
We don’t know the names of the children who’s heads rested under the blessing-hand of the Savior. I think this is by design, because we know in hearts that read the message and not just the words of the story that those children are our children.
Those children clamoring to receive the blessing–they are us. You and me.
Poppies don’t unfurl demurely, as the rose, or uncurl like the clematis and daisy. Poppies flash and pop and flare their skirts like flamenco dancers. They sail on wind and hold the thunderstorm rains with gentle hands. They surprise.
Of course, I sat there wishing it were me in the papery gown, making small talk with the technician, feeling the needles press through my skin and tissue with their numbing serum. I wish she were in the waiting room, or better yet, off at school or work or eating too many Oreos with her roommates. I wish she hadn’t felt a lump or spent time searching the internet for possible diagnoses. I wish cancer wasn’t even a fleeting thought in her beautiful brain.