My child's feelings are hurt. I tell her she's special. My child is injured. I do whatever it takes to make her feel better. My child is afraid. I won't go to sleep until she is secure. I'm not a hero. I'm not a superstar. I'm not unusual. I'm a parent. When a child hurts, a parent does what comes naturally. He helps.
Moments of comfort from a parent. As a father, I can tell you they are the sweetest moments in my day. They come naturally. They come willingly. They come joyfully. If all of that is true, if I know that one of the privileges of fatherhood is to comfort a child, then why am I so reluctant to let my heavenly Father comfort me?
Why do I think he wouldn't want to hear about my problems? ("They are puny compared to people starving in India.")
Why do I think he is too busy for me? ("He's got a whole universe to worry about.")
Why do I think he's tired of hearing the same old stuff?
Why do I think he groans when he sees me coming?
Why do I think he consults his list when I ask for forgiveness and asks, "Don't you think you're going to the well a few too many times on this one?"
Why do I think I have to speak a holy language around him that I don't speak with anyone else?
Why don't I let my Father do for me what I am more than willing to do for my own children?
I'm learning, though. Being a parent is better than a course on theology. Being a father is teaching me that when I am criticized, injured, or afraid, there is a Father who is ready to comfort me. There is a Father who will hold me until I'm better, help me until I can live with the hurt, and who won't go to sleep when I'm afraid of waking up and seeing the dark.
Ever.
And that's enough.
_______________________________________
Excerpt from The Applause of Heaven Copyright 1990, Max Lucado
Moments of comfort from a parent. As a father, I can tell you they are the sweetest moments in my day. They come naturally. They come willingly. They come joyfully. If all of that is true, if I know that one of the privileges of fatherhood is to comfort a child, then why am I so reluctant to let my heavenly Father comfort me?
Why do I think he wouldn't want to hear about my problems? ("They are puny compared to people starving in India.")
Why do I think he is too busy for me? ("He's got a whole universe to worry about.")
Why do I think he's tired of hearing the same old stuff?
Why do I think he groans when he sees me coming?
Why do I think he consults his list when I ask for forgiveness and asks, "Don't you think you're going to the well a few too many times on this one?"
Why do I think I have to speak a holy language around him that I don't speak with anyone else?
Why don't I let my Father do for me what I am more than willing to do for my own children?
I'm learning, though. Being a parent is better than a course on theology. Being a father is teaching me that when I am criticized, injured, or afraid, there is a Father who is ready to comfort me. There is a Father who will hold me until I'm better, help me until I can live with the hurt, and who won't go to sleep when I'm afraid of waking up and seeing the dark.
Ever.
And that's enough.
_______________________________________
Excerpt from The Applause of Heaven Copyright 1990, Max Lucado
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