Softly she sings, I'll love you forever

See what kind of love the Father has given to us, that we should be called children of God; and so we are. 1 John 3:1

This is something that I certainly know with every fiber of my body, the love one has for one’s children.  Certainly there is nothing more ferocious.  I worried about it a little bit.  I had certainly never been much of one for small children, and certainly not babies.  I was the most mediocre and disengaged of babysitters, well worth my twenty-five cents an hour.  As I watched my first swelling belly grow I was vaguely distressed- and was dutiful about, well the big thing then was to play classical music to the womb, rather than emotionally engaged.  Until the moment the doctor slid Nicole across my chest that is.  Bam.  I loved that child no ifs, ands, or buts.  Ferociously.  And once again, I fretted over Child Two, as I hand-pieced together a quilt, knowing that it would be absolutely impossible to squeeze another love into my bursting fullness.  Until bam.  And Heather slid across my chest and straight into my heart.  And Miss Pink Light, born in Navojoa, Mexico, when the doctors and nurses started whispering nervously and wouldn’t let me see her, I surge of joy and pride swelled upwards and outwards, and I knew no matter what, she was the most beautiful child ever.  

And as I walked Nicole up and down the hill outside our little house in the garbage dump, under the bright, bright stars, humming, “I love You, LORD, and I lift my soul to worship You,” for the very first time ever I knew I had a tiny glimpse of His love for me.  Until then it had all been Sunday School Jesus Loves Me theoretical, distant and abstract.  I didn’t know it.  

And really the more those little tossled blonde babies cost me, the more strands wrapped around and around.  Counting rehydration drops in Pinosol-drenched hospitals, scrubbing diapers on a cement slab, even those nights lying awake listening for crunching gravel in the driveway all painted darker stripes on my she tiger love. 

And loving those three little girls opened my heart door for more.  I learned to love my students with that love by acting like they were my own kids until it was true.  And those who wandered through our front door fit inside too.  And even, even the person powerwalking next to me around Reid Park, or standing behind me at Fry’s, or filling up his car at Circle K with the scent of weed roiling out the open car door and his dangling chains and saggy pants and clinging girlfriend.  And really, I am pretty much a basket case, my heart is so swollen and lumpy it wobbles reading about Haitians after Sandy or Syrian atrocities in small neighborhoods. And don’t even bother to watch any sort of shoot-em-up movie with me.  I can’t believe it’s pretend.  

Jesus loves the little children of the world.  All the children of the world. Red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in His sight.