Sing With Me?

The normal "get-ready-for-bed" routine, commenced at the normal "time-to-brush-your-teeth" hour, which turned into the predictable "why-are-you-taking-so-long" parental follow-up. The customary "you-can't-wear-that-to-bed" triggered the anticipated "yes-I'll-get-your-Kermit-and-Skipper" until I finally found a little lump beneath a cozy quilt on my little girl's bed.

"Can I lithen to that piano muthic tonight? It helpth me thleep" the lump muffled to me. Two front teeth were lost this month and the stereotypical lisp that melts into too many "yes's" from a parent is the consequence. Make that...conthequenth.

"Only if you show me the ears that will listen after we pray." I reached over to a pink Hello Kitty box covered with buttons and started her favorite Mark Zeeman CD. Though my kindergartener loves every kind of music, classical is her default with Mark's solo piano hymns reigning supreme.

We prayed for our church's Bible study, the hearts of the people, then covered and smothered the normal list of family and friends we love. And then I paused a minute. The quilted lump emerged and wrapped chubby arm tendrils around my neck and pulled me down close while I finished.

"And dear Jesus...will you hold us this close all of our days and not let Maddie or I drift from your path a single day? I pray that a moment without You close would make our hearts ache until we came right back to Your embrace. In Jesus name, amen."

As I tried to sit up, the grip got tighter and a whisper asked, "Could you just thtay here a little while and hold me 'til I thleep?" I snuggled alongside spoon-like next to pink satin pajamas and we listened quiet to the music. But it didn't take long until my normal heart button was pushed and I began to sing the lyrics softly over her perfect profile framed in the quilt.

"What ith the name of thith thong?" she asked.

"Let's sing it together and then you'll remember."

Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,

Let this blest assurance control,

That Christ has regarded my helpless estate,

And hath shed His own blood for my soul.

It is well, with my soul,

It is well, it is well, with my soul.

"That-th it! It ith well with my thoul!!" she shouted and commenced to singing again. And as we sang the lyrics to the song, humming when we forgot, she turned to look at me when she sang. Despite the darkness, the CD player gave off enough light for me to see her twinkle eyes and toothless grin. Song over; "love-you-most" echoes and repeated forehead kisses turned into the normal "please-go-to-sleep-and-do-not-play-with-your-stuffed-animals" request.

As I walked down the hallway, my heart was overflowing with divine, inexpressible joy. I had no words but wanted to shout to heaven my praises and thanksgiving and found that everything I was troubled about was blanketed with gratitude and happiness. It seemed way too overwhelming for such a brief, though heavenly, few minutes of prayer and singing. 

But then a familiar soft voice interrupted my thoughts with gentle clarity, "Do you think you have more joy hearing your daughter sing to Me than I have when YOU sing to Me? Do you know what it does to My heart when you look at Me and worship with your life despite 'sorrows like sea billows roll?'" Do you so quickly forget how much I love to hold you and have you realize the arms that embrace your life?"

And I was stunned afresh; that my Father's heart is a parents heart, Whose love is so large it eclipses all of what His children feel at their deepest. My inexpressible joy was a mere drip of His poured in...so that I might remember that He will always love us eternally more than we could ever love another...even a toothless miracle.

And Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight,

The clouds be rolled back as a scroll;

The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend,

Even so, it is well with my soul.

The "Color Me Mine" of God

"Mom, can you lean the car over so I can paint the wheels?"

"Sure honey." I carefully tipped the Nascar wannabe on its side and braced it for impact. A small, pudgy hand slammed the paint brush against the ceramic like a hammer in the hand of a mechanic.

"Daddy will just love it! He can put all kinds of money in it and maybe use it for Disney Land or something" she said mesmerized by her own creativity. "I'll do the rest myself."

Before I could stop her, little fingers wrapped around the edges of the freshly painted hood then jumped quickly to the front bumper to lift it for another slather of blue. I smiled as I watched her hands put on just as many coats of paint as the car. I had tried so hard to keep the artwork free of smudges and the child free of graffiti. Failed on both.

"Tada! How you think of that?!" she asked with glowing admiration. Scurrying off to wash the mural from her limbs I looked closely at this soon-to-be keepsake of love. Just as I expected-little fingerprints, scratches, and indentations adorned every door panel, window, and tire. Perfect.

Evidence of the artist's handling were only hours away from being fired into the clay repeatedly. I grabbed my daughter's soapy hands and walked her over to sample pieces on display. "Look how shiny the clay becomes honey! Look at how wonderful and rich the colors are once the clay goes through the fire. Next week your bank will be even more beautiful than today."

The whole ride home became one of those "teachable moments" from the Lord that you long for with your children. Glancing between cherub reflections in the rearview mirror and snarling traffic ahead, scriptures turned into Bible stories turned into Sunday school songs I half hummed because of forgotten lyrics.

Days later, sitting in front of our wood stove at home, the Lord seemed to lean my attention to some circumstances in my past and details began to splash across my thoughts. Words previously spoken were like harsh brush strokes that colored my emotions with dark hues. Different events nicked, scratched and painted my future with blacks bleeding into the white days of hope. Disappointments smudged purposes and discouragement left fingerprints all over what I was laboring so hard to do well.

I hear the words of Jesus from John 10:29, "No man can snatch you out of My Father's hand." That hand that lifted this dirty piece of clay out of a miry pit and shaped me into a vessel for Himself. The clay that He gave the air of solitude in my early years so I could become a solid believer rather than be molded and shaped by the world's influence. This clay that He dusted off and began to paint with divine colors and tender brush strokes which I complained about because of the gray dullness, dark overtones, sickly yellows, or fleshy dirt browns. I whined about scraping tools that chipped pieces of my clay, winced when rubbing against sandpaper people, and oftentimes wallowed in self-pity over the Artist's handling.

God's words are more than black letters on white pages. They breathe life into our soul and purpose into our perspective.

"When you walk through the fire, you shall not be burned,

Nor shall the flame scorch you.

For I am the Lord your God...your Savior...you were precious

in My sight, You have been honored and I have loved you." Isa. 43:2-4

"Everything that can endure fire, you shall put through the fire,

and it shall be clean; and it shall be purified..." Numbers 31:23

He calls us precious, honored, and loved. And so the Father hand holds these redeemed lumps of clay and begins a beautifying work of molding, shaping, conforming, then hardening, cleaning, and adorning. We are tossed upside down, sharp tools cut our hearts, and unwanted events color our days. Then the fires of adversity where we don't believe we will make it.

But in the Father's hand, only those things that can endure fire are put through the fire. And when in the fire you don't stay there but go through for a set time. And while the flames heat envelops us and lick our wounds, blankets our colors, we come out on the other side as a display piece for the Father's glory. "Then the righteous shall shine forth as the sun in the kingdom of their Father." Matthew 13:43.

And if onlookers gaze close enough, they will see that each piece of our Father's clay has His loving fingerprints all over it. Forever fired into His artwork which continually reflects the brilliance and glory of a good and loving Potter.