Whenever I babysit, I'm struck by it at least once. And so during the meltdown or the pouting, I usually sit down and consider.
Is this what I look like to God? I ask myself, and in the stiff legs and tears before me, I see yes.
Stubborn and sometimes angry. Our instinct is to fight against the hand that tells us no more candy. Or the love that says, this is best. I know.
I think about it too, when we start to sing on Sunday morning. Sometimes it's hard to hear the piano over lusty two year old lungs. We nod and smile and love it, and then suppose that our praise sounds more lovely to a Heavenly ear.
But surely our praise seems much like the babies, with every clue and no clue, taking ourselves quite seriously.
A friend recounted a worship service she attended at the old folk's home the other day. It was apparently complete with camp meeting hymns and the keyboard player wore a wig.
God most definitely has a sense of humour, we concluded. And who knows that our own worship is sometimes not as scattered, funny, hopeful, and given much grace before the throne of its beginning.
He loves us and I sometimes forget that this love is not because I'm managing to keep it together. He is the Father who watches me frown, arms crossed and leads me through repentance and making it right.
He is the Father who hears my voice in song, and smiles because I have so much to learn.
He is the Father...And the lines have fallen in pleasant places indeed, for I am his little child.