We recently had a bout of the stomach virus at our house. Anyone who has ever experienced such a thing knows how very unpleasant it is. Anyone who’s been through it with kids knows things can get downright crazy.
At one point Sawyer was literally covered in vomit. I walked him to the bathroom to put him in the shower, and he was so miserable, so sad, so tired, he simply laid his head against me while we waited for the shower to warm up. And I wasn’t disgusted by that. I wasn’t sitting there thinking that I wish he wasn’t my son or I that I regretted getting pregnant and birthing him almost five years ago. I didn’t yell at him to get away from me or tell him how gross he was. I stroked his hair and patted him and told him everything was okay. If anything, my love for him soared in that moment, when he needed me. Then I took care in cleaning him up, putting clean clothes on him, and getting him tucked warmly into his bed again. I spent the rest of my night straining to hear him in his room, ready to jump up if he needed me again.
It struck me later that for some reason we don’t think God can love us the way we love our children. I am such a flawed, terribly imperfect human being, yet I felt such love for my son in his totally unlovely state in the middle of the night. Why would I question whether God can love me in the same way? In an unfathomably better way? When He finds me in a disgusting state, maybe He isn’t angry (the way I picture Him sometimes). When I am so needy that I have to lean on Him just to stay upright, maybe He doesn’t get annoyed or frustrated. When I am covered head to toe in everything that is repulsive to Him, maybe He doesn’t regret that I am His child. Maybe His love for me soars. Maybe in those moments God enjoys just patting me and reassuring me that everything is going to be okay. After all, if I can love Sawyer so much, how much more incredible must a holy, perfect God’s love for His children be?
I believe in that kind of love. I’m so glad that I am His child.