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Why (how?) in the world does God (still) love His kids?

Or anyone, for that matter? Because, I mean after all, we aren’t really that loveable. Or loving. Or nice. Or anything like what He’d like us to be.

Except when we’re asleep. And then we’re perfect angels.

Well, except for the ADHD kids who really do devise your wicked, evil plans in your sleep, like most parents accuse their children of on their worst days.

God gave the Preacher and me two kids ten years apart. I planned on having four kids two to three years apart. But whenever I make a list and hand it to God, He laughs, and says, Great idea. But, sorry, not gonna work. Then He tears the paper in half, crumples it and tosses it behind His shoulder. Yeah, that pile keeps getting bigger.

But the older I get, the less time I spend making lists to give to God.

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But back to why I only have two kids…

Actually, I don’t know why. Have absolutely no idea. All I know is every time we tried to make a baby, including the week we tried every day for seven days—it didn’t work. But every time we made plans to move or make a major change in our family, guess what—I got pregnant!

As long as I live I will always look at families with four kids spaced two to three years apart, and wonder, How did they do that? Because I still have no idea.

But about the two great-looking kids who somehow came from their non-descript, average-looking (read *plain*) parents (another of life’s mysteries), when someone tells me, Wow! You’ve got some gorgeous kids…! I shake my head. Uh… why are you telling me? I had nothing to do with it!

Really, though, becoming a parent was one of the most incredible events to ever happen in my entire life. Because when I became a parent, I fell deeply in love with my bundles of perfectly cuddly, overflowing with miraculous baby-ness.

And suddenly, I understood how much my heavenly Father loves His kids. Flaws and all.

My son is so stubborn, if he ever drowns in a river, his body will float upstream! When he was little and his dad came home from work, the Preacher would ask, So how was your day?

I would answer, We’re both still alive. So it must have been a good day.

Relatives told me, when J was out of earshot, of course, If he was my kid, I’d kill him.

Yeah, but people go to prison for murder, I said, so that’s not an option.

Friends told me, God just wants to give you more strength.

And if I get any stronger, I’ll start growing hair on my chest!

Our girl was easier, till her tween and early teen years, but that’s another story.

The point is, I love my kids. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. My kids. Even when they’re stubborn. Even with their quirks. Even on their worst days, when they don’t like me very much and want to run away (and I’m wishing I had raised pugs instead). I still love them.

Because they look like me? Because they act like me?

Uh… no.

Because we like the same movies and music and clothing styles?

Uh… hardly.

Because they do and say and value all the things I wish they would?

Definitely not.

Because I’m never embarrassed by their foibles? And every phrase and photo they post or tweet or send into cyberspace brings joy and delight to my heart?

Heavens, no!

I love them because… because, I don’t exactly know why…

I just have this endless spring of love that flows from my heart onto their beings and into their lives, and they came from my body to emerge into this cold, glaring world, and they’re mine, and every baby is one of Creation’s wonders shaped in the image of the One who formed them from one microscopic invisible cell, from the union of two in love, from the heart and intents of the God who values relationships above all else…

And because I’m their Mom. Period.

And believe it or not, that’s how God loves me. And you.

With all our flaws. All our imperfections. All our ineptness and clumsy efforts at trying to please Him.

Even when we’re squabbling like a bunch of pre-schoolers, fighting over toys, insisting on our own way, believing God loves me best and more than you, because I’m the good-est and your clothes are too dirty.

Even when I’m wrong, my Father still loves me.

When my prayers stumble from unclean lips, but my heart longs to become more like Him… so I spend time on my knees anyway.

Even when I get distracted and lose my way and yearn for things that will not last… but I keep coming back, keep trying to read the map, to follow His ways.

In my efforts to please Him, my strivings to obey, when I trip and stumble, and I’m not as experienced as someone else and I don’t catch on as quickly… still He picks me up, and brushes me off, and hugs me tight, and whispers, I’m right here with you, and I love you so much. Don’t give up.

Even when the pretty weeds I picked for my Daddy hang limp in my chubby hands, cuz I held them too tight and too long while dawdling on the way home… but I hold them out and offer my childish gift to Him anyway.

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Because even though I’m human and so far from what He has in mind for me, I love Him.

And He loves me.

Cuz He’s my Daddy. Period.

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