Luminous mystery—in my clearer moments, I see you, child of mine. You are dazzling. You take my breath away. You embrace me with nothing held back, with no pretense, no ulterior motives. You are a possibility I have not yet come to know. Sometimes at night, I watch you sleep: your chin tucked to chest on your pillow, your knees pulled in, your slim frame curls into a question mark. Who will you become? What will you teach us? What shores will be changed by the ripple of your life?
But your worth is not in your possibility, but in your present. The world does not wait to be changed by you. This light one whose fingers clasp around my neck, and whose head lies so softly on my shoulder, you who I lift almost effortlessly have a weightiness, a heft, because you are more than possibility, you are a person. You are a person who is changing me. You are a person, created in the very image of God.
Jesus, said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these” (Matthew 19:4). He knew we had something to learn from your dependence, from your abandon, from your wonder, from your joy, and from your trust. Hear the way He speaks of you. He held you on his knee as ones who possessed dignity, as ones made in the very image of His Father, as ones who had something to teach the so-called “wise.”
Do I treat you this way? Do I revere you as a splendid person of infinite value, not because of your possibility or your capability, but because of your essence? Do I remember that I did not create you, nor do I own you? You are not my child, as I would talk about my car or my house. You are on loan to me. You are entrusted to me, not simply for what I can do for you, but for what He wants to do in my life through you. So thank you.
I do not mistake you as perfect, dear child. Oh no, of all people, I have a front row seat to your sin-soaked moments (as you do for mine as well). I know we are both desperately flawed and desperately in need of the One who called us both to come. But neither should I mistake you as ordinary. We should both remember that as Lewis said, “There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal. Nations, cultures, arts, civilizations – these are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat. But it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub and exploit – immortal horrors or everlasting splendors. “
As I teach you right from wrong, let me remember that you possess an everlasting soul, and that I struggle along with you in bending my spirit to do that which I know I should. As I explain to you things which seem simple to me, like 5+5=10, may I remember that while you may lack knowledge, your mind is a dazzling wonder, assimilating information at a rate which far surpasses my own. While I dress you, may I remember that you are an individual, unique in your tastes and personality. When you ask me to play with you, when you cuddle up next to me with a book, when you instinctively reach for my hand, may I remember that I have a friend in you who perhaps surpasses any I have ever or will ever know. When you speak, may I listen with expectation for how you will challenge and change me. As I lead you, may I do it with a trembling heart, knowing what a treasure God has entrusted me.
Little one, may I always remember and respect that you are a distinct and splendid person. May I hold the lightness of you in my arms with the weight of wonder your soul deserves.
Did you enjoy this post? Consider subscribing to get more thoughts like these delivered straight to your inbox. If this is your first time here, I hope you’ll stay awhile, read a few posts, and find out more about me and my books and writing. And of course, if you liked this post, would you consider sharing it?