Finally warmer weather is here and we are celebrating it by spending just about every second out in the sunlight. Television is almost forgotten as there are trees to climb and flowers to pick. While April showers are needed to bring May flowers, here in Tennessee March monsoons bring April’s early blooms. Monsoons are an overstatement, but we are in no shortage of mud puddles. Mud puddles attract children. Especially children who didn’t change out of their nice school clothes before a healthy competition of mud pie bake-offs. It always looks like Fear Factor meets Cake Boss with the double tiered stick and worm masterpiece.
Yesterday as I was totally zoning out on the porch swing, I heard a shriek. I looked over instinctively at the biggest mud puddle and there emerged a nasty, gooey monster that used to be my curly headed cherub. It was crying for me and pointing to some unseen boo-boo in the knee area.
Not a moment of hesitation before I had her swooped up and began wiping the mud to the side to see if there was an injury. Her siblings began to chant “EWWW” and other words that symbolize complete disgust at the dirt beast. I saw a couple of clean spots but they were trails that had been cleared by her tears. I kissed one of those spots and got a nice lip coating of grime, but the tears stopped and she became impatient to get back to The Bake Off. The fact that I had kissed her elicited a comment from one of her big sisters to not touch her because I would get muddy.
I didn’t really see the mud in those moments, although I did mentally schedule an appointment with a bottle of Shout. All I saw in that moment was my daughter who needed me.
It’s like that with God, ya know?
You were doing your own thing and making quite the mess, but for a time it was fun. Then somehow along the way you got hurt and cried out. Covered in filth, your Father makes His way to you. Those around you may exclaim how disgusting you have gotten and although they may have participated with you in the beginning; won’t touch you with a 10 foot pole now. They aren’t willing to get their own hands dirty with your bedraggled appearance.
Your Father doesn’t see the disheveled and foul. He simply sees in that moment His child who needs Him.
Charging through the slovenly mess to snatch up what is His and comfort what is hurt. Always willing to kiss the trail of our pain through whatever mess we have made of ourselves. Waiting on the edges of our life to get us cleaned up and anew. That’s just what Father’s do.