by Leah
In Greg Boyle's most excellent book, Tattoos on the Heart,* he tells the story of his Jesuit mentor caring for the mentor's dying father in his last days. Every night the son, exhausted from the sheer non-stop physicality of meeting his frail father's needs, would begin to read him to sleep, eager to finish their ritual so he himself could get some much-needed rest. Only--and if you're a parent you're probably familiar with this part of the ritual--his dad refused to go to sleep. The son would admonish his dad to shut his eyes, then return to the soothing story, only to look up moments later and find one of his dad's eyes "impishly" open, his face pleated in a smile, unable to take his gaze off of his son. This admonish, obediently close, sneak another look cycle would repeat itself over and over as the father soaked in the sight of his beloved son.
I often feel that way about Little Bit. Her dad and I will have just spent 30 (occasionally 60? ...90? depending on the day) minutes doing her bedtime routine or getting her ready for a nap, cajoling her into sleep, and staying with her until it really settles in, and then, when we've FINALLY gotten to the moment we've so desperately yearned for--sleep! a shower! a run! or, you know, other adult activities...--we find ourselves still stuck by her side, gazing at her wonderful face as she sleeps.
She is perfect.
I mean that in this way: parents often talk about how, when their child is finally peacefully asleep, they feel like they can recharge from however challenging, frustrating, or just plain tiresome their child has been that day. But to us, her parents, Little Bit's perfection--her "just rightness"--also includes the fussing, pooping, and mischievous sleep-avoidance tactics, even the eardrum-bursting screams when we've kept her out too late and the endless middle-of-the-night wakeups when she's gassy. We love her so dang much that we love all of her, even the difficult parts.
And that, Father Greg says, is how God loves us--only even more so:
"God would seem to be too occupied in being unable to take Her eyes off of us to spend any time raising an eyebrow in disapproval. What's true of Jesus is true for us: 'You are my Beloved, in whom I am wonderfully pleased.'"
Enjoy it. :)
*If you are a preacher, get thee to this book, for it is full of fabulous sermon stories (and a bunch of swearing--you were warned).
In Greg Boyle's most excellent book, Tattoos on the Heart,* he tells the story of his Jesuit mentor caring for the mentor's dying father in his last days. Every night the son, exhausted from the sheer non-stop physicality of meeting his frail father's needs, would begin to read him to sleep, eager to finish their ritual so he himself could get some much-needed rest. Only--and if you're a parent you're probably familiar with this part of the ritual--his dad refused to go to sleep. The son would admonish his dad to shut his eyes, then return to the soothing story, only to look up moments later and find one of his dad's eyes "impishly" open, his face pleated in a smile, unable to take his gaze off of his son. This admonish, obediently close, sneak another look cycle would repeat itself over and over as the father soaked in the sight of his beloved son.
I often feel that way about Little Bit. Her dad and I will have just spent 30 (occasionally 60? ...90? depending on the day) minutes doing her bedtime routine or getting her ready for a nap, cajoling her into sleep, and staying with her until it really settles in, and then, when we've FINALLY gotten to the moment we've so desperately yearned for--sleep! a shower! a run! or, you know, other adult activities...--we find ourselves still stuck by her side, gazing at her wonderful face as she sleeps.
She is perfect.
I mean that in this way: parents often talk about how, when their child is finally peacefully asleep, they feel like they can recharge from however challenging, frustrating, or just plain tiresome their child has been that day. But to us, her parents, Little Bit's perfection--her "just rightness"--also includes the fussing, pooping, and mischievous sleep-avoidance tactics, even the eardrum-bursting screams when we've kept her out too late and the endless middle-of-the-night wakeups when she's gassy. We love her so dang much that we love all of her, even the difficult parts.
And that, Father Greg says, is how God loves us--only even more so:
"God would seem to be too occupied in being unable to take Her eyes off of us to spend any time raising an eyebrow in disapproval. What's true of Jesus is true for us: 'You are my Beloved, in whom I am wonderfully pleased.'"
Enjoy it. :)
*If you are a preacher, get thee to this book, for it is full of fabulous sermon stories (and a bunch of swearing--you were warned).