A Glimpse

This afternoon I stood waiting for our son to emerge from this world they call middle school. I stood with the other parents, all of us craning our necks to find our own, trying to get a glimpse of their faces, searching them for hints of how the day went.

Last week I read a list of questions to ask your child about his day—even though the author's son was three and mine's ten, I thought I'd try them out. So while he kindly entertained the questions, none of them got to the heart of it or him. I was desperate to know it all, wanted to feel everything he felt, see it through his eyes, know if he found his way, had someone to sit with at lunch, if there were fears, hard conversations, questions, . . . I had to wait.

Little bits and pieces of the day trickled out, and as I tucked him in tonight, I realized God must feel this way about me—eager to connect with me, hear how I experienced the day he laid out before me, how it tasted, felt, how I was doing at the end of it all.

And I began to fall into shame, knowing how lacking that conversation is. But that stopped when words of truth came back: a friend reminded us this weekend that we’re sheep and he’s the incomparably compassionate shepherd. He waits lovingly for me. And why wouldn’t he yearn to hear my thoughts about the day: he calls me his child.

See what great love the Father has lavished on us,

that we should be called children of God!

-I John 3:1

Two summers ago