Post by MIRIAM JACOB on Sept 9, 2008 4:11:08 GMT -5
HE WANTS TO COMFORT YOU
by Max Lucado
My child’s feelings are hurt. I tell her she’s special. My child is
injured. I do whatever it takes to make her feel better.
My child is afraid. I won’t go to sleep until she is secure.
I’m not a hero. I’m not a superstar. I’m not unusual. I’m a parent.
When a child hurts, a parent does what comes naturally. He helps.
And after I help, I don’t charge a fee. I don’t ask for a favor in return.
When my child cries, I don’t tell her to buck up, act tough, and keep a stiff
upper lip. Nor do I consult a list and ask her why she is still scraping
the
same elbow or waking me up again.
I’m not a prophet, nor the son of one, but something tells me that in the
whole scheme of things the tender moments described above are infinitely more
valuable than anything I do in front of a computer screen or congregation.
Something tells me that the moments of comfort I give my child are a small price
to pay for the joy of someday seeing my daughter do for her daughter what her
dad did for her.
Moments of comfort from a parent. As a father, I can tell you they are the
sweetest moments in my day. They come naturally. They come willingly. They come
joyfully.
If all of that is true, if I know that one of the privileges of fatherhood is
to comfort a child, then why am I so reluctant to let my heavenly Father comfort
me?
Why do I think he wouldn’t want to hear about my problems? (“They are puny
compared to people starving in India.”)
Why do
I think he is too busy for me? (“He’s got a whole universe to worry
about.”)
Why do I think he’s tired of hearing the same old stuff?
Why do I think he groans when he sees me coming?
Why do I think he consults his list when I ask for forgiveness and asks,
“Don’t you think you’re going to the well a few too many times on this
one?”
Why do I think I have to speak a holy language around him that I don’t speak
with anyone else?
Why do I not take him seriously when he questions, “If you, then, though you
are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your
Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!” (Matthew 7:11)
Why don’t I let my Father do for me what I am more than willing to do for my
own children?
I’m learning, though. Being a parent is better than a course on theology.
Being a father is teaching me that when I am
criticized, injured, or afraid,
there is a Father who is ready to comfort me. There is a Father who will hold me
until I’m better, help me until I can live with the hurt, and who won’t go
to sleep when I’m afraid of waking up and seeing the dark.
Ever. And that’s enough.
________________________________
From The Applause of Heaven
Copyright (Thomas Nelson, Inc., 1999) Max Lucado
www.maxlucado.com
by Max Lucado
My child’s feelings are hurt. I tell her she’s special. My child is
injured. I do whatever it takes to make her feel better.
My child is afraid. I won’t go to sleep until she is secure.
I’m not a hero. I’m not a superstar. I’m not unusual. I’m a parent.
When a child hurts, a parent does what comes naturally. He helps.
And after I help, I don’t charge a fee. I don’t ask for a favor in return.
When my child cries, I don’t tell her to buck up, act tough, and keep a stiff
upper lip. Nor do I consult a list and ask her why she is still scraping
the
same elbow or waking me up again.
I’m not a prophet, nor the son of one, but something tells me that in the
whole scheme of things the tender moments described above are infinitely more
valuable than anything I do in front of a computer screen or congregation.
Something tells me that the moments of comfort I give my child are a small price
to pay for the joy of someday seeing my daughter do for her daughter what her
dad did for her.
Moments of comfort from a parent. As a father, I can tell you they are the
sweetest moments in my day. They come naturally. They come willingly. They come
joyfully.
If all of that is true, if I know that one of the privileges of fatherhood is
to comfort a child, then why am I so reluctant to let my heavenly Father comfort
me?
Why do I think he wouldn’t want to hear about my problems? (“They are puny
compared to people starving in India.”)
Why do
I think he is too busy for me? (“He’s got a whole universe to worry
about.”)
Why do I think he’s tired of hearing the same old stuff?
Why do I think he groans when he sees me coming?
Why do I think he consults his list when I ask for forgiveness and asks,
“Don’t you think you’re going to the well a few too many times on this
one?”
Why do I think I have to speak a holy language around him that I don’t speak
with anyone else?
Why do I not take him seriously when he questions, “If you, then, though you
are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your
Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!” (Matthew 7:11)
Why don’t I let my Father do for me what I am more than willing to do for my
own children?
I’m learning, though. Being a parent is better than a course on theology.
Being a father is teaching me that when I am
criticized, injured, or afraid,
there is a Father who is ready to comfort me. There is a Father who will hold me
until I’m better, help me until I can live with the hurt, and who won’t go
to sleep when I’m afraid of waking up and seeing the dark.
Ever. And that’s enough.
________________________________
From The Applause of Heaven
Copyright (Thomas Nelson, Inc., 1999) Max Lucado
www.maxlucado.com