~just a little ditty I wrote for National Day of Prayer <3 Love and be loved~
There’s God, sitting in his throne room, so big that all I can see are his feet and the edge of his robe. Massive, inevitable, glowing. And then there’s me, running and storming in unannounced, with dirt on my nose and an agenda on my mind. In this version of heaven, I’m probably around seven years old, and I run in with bruises on my knees, scratches on my arms, sometimes tears on my face. Mud shaped foot prints track the throne room, but I’m relentless. I storm into his presence just to be near: to be near would be enough. Not even seeing his face, not even touching his hands, not hearing his words, because he’s God and busy and has better things to do than to be bothered. Just sitting at his feet, being near, would be enough.
But God (and I love how frequent this phrase is in the Bible), heard my loud and childlike stomping from across the hall and chuckles to himself. This one can’t seem to keep the dirt off her face, he says to himself. He watches as she, wiping the snot from her nose with the back of her hand, tracks her muddy self in, and somehow doesn’t care that there’s now evidence of this little girl in his magnificent, bright, perfect throne room. His daughter has a story to share, although she doesn’t look happy about it, and goodness gracious, does he want to hear all about it.
She pauses before the throne with the words just about to tumble from her small frame, but instead she sits with her back braced on the base of that grand chair. She sits just close enough to feel the softness of the robe, leaning her head against his leg. Yes, this is good, and she is tired. It’s been a long day in the life of a seven year old, and here... it’s time for a nap.
God picks me up from the armpits, sets me on his lap— mud stained jeans, bruised knees, and all— and gives me that look that asks me what happened today. And he takes his hands and wipes the dirt from my nose and tears from my eyes, matching his eyes with mine. In them I see the depth of the love of a father, the kindness and compassion that I have so longed to see and feel. His eyes are magnificent and like fire and all consuming and yet I am not consumed. They’re my favorite things to see. And he lets me stay there, a daughter sitting in the lap of her father, until I fall asleep and he carries me back into my room.
(Yes, the switch between perspectives was an intentional, albeit confusing, stylistic choice, but this is how sometimes I view prayer: we’re dirty, muddy seven year olds, making the whole place dirty, and yet God doesn’t mind that we enter into the Holy of Holies just as we are. Whether we’re crying from a rough day at the playground, or we had the best day of our lives, we are in continuous prayer with God when our first response to both of those things and everything in between, is running (re: storming) the throne room. I am definitely not worthy enough to see his face; and anything I need, I believe I can find at the edge of his robe, and any gift I have is unworthy to leave but at his feet— just like the bleeding woman (Mark 5) and the woman who washes Jesus’ feet (Luke 7).
And yet God does me one better: he picks me up and calls me his beloved, his child, and no matter how white his robes and and how muddy I am, he picks me up and sets me in his lap. In his arms, I realize that I am the one he would leave the 99 for (and so are you!). Heck if we deserve it, but it’s not up to us anymore to get what we deserve. God just wants us with childlike abandon.)
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