The One Thing We Forget to Give God
“Here, mama.” My two-year-old extended her pudgy, closed fist.
Inside, no doubt, rested a highly-prized treasure. My kids do this often, this bringing me gifts thing. Then they’ll drop their special gift into my hand and I’ll ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ over their precious deposit. At times, they give me acorns. Other times, rocks. Or weeds. And, if I’m really lucky, those weeds will somewhat resemble flowers.
I reached my hand out to accept her sweet offering, and she dropped it in my palm.
I looked down, puzzled. What was that thing? A stick?
No, it was too soft and squishy to be a stick.
Did she find a melted piece of chocolate in the couch cushions?
No, it wasn’t dark enough to be chocolate.
Surely it wasn’t…
I lowered my head and took a quick whiff.
“WHAT THE—” I sprang off the couch and suppressed all the expletives that wanted to surge from my mouth.
Sure enough, the kid had put her own turd in my hand. She must’ve fished it out of her diaper. Which meant that…
I frantically scanned the room—the walls, floor, furniture, toys, everything—searching for brown fingerprints.
Fortunately, I didn’t see any. Hopefully I didn’t overlook them. After all, when poop sits for a while, it’s a lot harder to scrub off. But there was no time to scour the house.
With poop squished in the crevices of my palm, I scooped my toddler up by her armpits and carried her at arms’ length to the bathtub.
Before she could wipe her filth on anything else, I washed us both off and sent her back. Fresh. Clean. Ready to reach out and stainlessly touch whatever she wanted.
All too often, I think we forget to hand God our poop.
Naturally, we want to offer Him our best and show Him all the great things we’re doing. Which is absolutely wonderful.
And yet, He wants our filth, too.
He wants us to put our dirtiest, most disgusting traits in His hands.
Which is why I seem to give Him a lot of stuff. Selfishness. Impatience. Explosiveness and quickness to anger.
Those seem to go into His hands almost on the daily.
“Here, Daddy.” I extend my pudgy, closed fist.
He reaches out to accept my offering, and I drop it in His hand.
But He’s not puzzled. He knows exactly what’s going on.
I am stained. And the filth I’ve produced could dirty the world.
He scans my children, my home, husband and friends, strangers, everything searching for brown fingerprints.
Hopefully there are none. After all, when filth sits for a while, it’s a lot harder to scrub off.
Then, with my sins squished in the crevices of His palm, He scoops me up and draws me to Himself.
Before I can wipe my dirtiness on anything else, He washes both of us off and sends me back. Fresh. Clean. Ready to reach out and stainlessly touch the world.