Bright red whirling around my kitchen. She’s playing the air guitar. Her mouth is twisted to one side in her best imitation of a rock star.
Her daddy and I are smiling. She’s trying so hard, gaining energy as she notices us looking at her. He winks at me, “She must be needing some attention.” Come, sit back down with us and eat breakfast, hunny.
So young, to think that her moves earn love.
Before she could even do anything to be consciously proud of, we gazed upon her, the most precious, most beautiful thing we’d ever seen. We inhaled her velvet crown and dimpled chin, lovingly wiped up the curdled milk from her lips, watched her chest rise and fall. She was perfect.
Six years later we look back at those pictures and think, she did look a tiny bit like Old Man Dumpy.
But to us, Old Man Dumpy was perfect, because our love wasn’t for anything. It wasn’t for her good looks. It wasn’t for singing sideways out of her mouth while leaping through the air holding an imaginary guitar.
Love just fills the mama, the papa…and leaks out, over and over and all over them.
It makes me wonder, if He doesn’t really need our dancing and singing and performing for Him?
Maybe, if we could slow down—be a bit more still, a bit less enamored with ourselves, a bit more quiet on our chair on the earth within the swirling universe—maybe we’d catch a glimpse of the One who gazes upon us with that same contented smile of a a mama.