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| T is the best. And so stinkin' smart :) |
My mom got a Lite Brite for my
three year old nephew. He loves it.
She has drawn a spider, and an elephant, an owl and a giraffe, among
numerous other animals, for him to see come to life with the transparent
colored pegs. He loves this toy,
but he knows that he cannot design an animal, set it up, punch the holes and
put the pegs in the correct space all on his own. He wants those animals to exist, yet he knows that he can’t
do it on his own. And instead of
insisting that he must be allowed to do it without assistance, he has a phrase,
often repeated several times in quick succession: Help me! Help me, help me,
help me! And of course I do.
I want to see him succeed. I want him to experience delight in
this and other things—putting puzzles together, building dinosaurs from Duplos.
I love seeing his face light up when he helps with a certain part and to see
him laugh when we finish a project.
Because I love him.
So it makes me wonder—what am I
holding back from that I really want to do because I know I cannot do it
alone. What am I avoiding because
I know I would need help to pull it off.
What do I need to go to God with and say, “Help me! Help me, help me,
help me!” Help me with knowing how to feel and react to a situation! Help me to
know what to do and how to overcome! Help me to do what you’ve called me to do!
Help me to figure out what you’ve called me to do in this situation! If I, in my meager, earthly, sin laden
love for my nephew, love to help him complete a Lite Brite elephant, what is it
that the Savior of the world is looking to help me with? How much more help
could I possibly expect or need than what would be provided?
It’s humbling to realize that in
his totally innocent and too young to realize he’s an example way that my
nephew knows where it’s at. Look
at who is bigger than you, look at who knows more and is stronger, and tell
them what you want, knowing that love is on the other side. Which isn’t to say that I always do everything
for him, that I don’t sometimes say, “You can help,” to him or insist he do a
small part himself. But I know
what he’s capable of alone, I push him a little bit beyond that, and then I
step in to fill the rest of the void.
And I only know to do that because of the pattern Jesus established
first.
And I’m desiring so hard to
know---what is going to move this from the theoretical to the practical? This
is kind of an interesting, and hopefully helpful, little story, but what
practically does it mean I should be doing differently in my life?
So while we’re using T as a good
example, he has a longer, slightly funnier catch phrase of late. It’s not ha-ha funny, but more, huh,
what a funny thing for a toddler to say kind of funny. He looks at you and says, “What did you
say?” with the same intonation constantly. Even when I’m pretty sure he heard me. “What did you say?” Even when I think
I’ve made it clear, even when I think it’s loud enough. “What did you say?”
How often is God trying to get me
to say that? He himself says that
He is often in the whisper, not the roar.
The subtlety that is so easy to miss if we aren’t looking. He wants to constantly be asking, “What
did you say?” What are we missing? What does he have for us—what does he want
us to be asking for help in—that we haven’t quite picked up on. “What did you say, God?”
And whenever T asks, I tell him. I
smile and repeat myself, not annoyed, but loving that this little person is in
my life. I don’t scold him for not
paying attention, but love that he wants to know and is persistent enough to
ask. And again, this is earthly
love for my nephew. How much more
will my Father in heaven respond with love for me if I come to Him and ask,
“What did you say? Help me.”
I’m not saying T is a genius (but,
c’mon, of course he is), I’m not saying he is the perfect example of faith like
a child. I am saying he is loved,
and how we respond in love to his simple, real questions, might be a good
example of how our Father wants to respond to us if we come to Him with our
equally real, simple questions.
