Glimpses of glory
A few months ago, I over-reacted to something our oldest son did. Or maybe it was something he said? As is often the case in these situations where I give a split-second reaction instead of a more gentle response, I can’t even remember now what happened.
I saw him wither beneath my harsh words and tone and skulk away. Soon after, I tracked him down in his room, kneeled by his bed, and apologized for not honoring him in the way I spoke to him. “Will you forgive me, sweetie?” I asked, those words feeling as well-worn as the copy of Goodnight Moon he keeps near his bed, just in case Jane wants him to read it to her before she goes to sleep.
He opened his little boy arms wide and said tenderly, “Always!”
During family prayers several weeks ago, Noah said he didn’t want to take his turn to pray. This is not characteristic of him, so I prodded a bit to see what was troubling him. His lips pressed together into an increasingly thin line in that Noah way that signals to me that tears aren’t far behind. He soon dissolved onto my shoulder, confessing that he wants to talk to Jesus face to face so badly, “not someday, but right now at this bedtime.”
The other day, Henry raced up to me and said, “Mom, I love you more than you can think! God loves you as much as I love you—maybe more,” he said, arms waving wildly. Then he grabbed by face, looked into my eyes, and said slowly, emphasizing every word, “As much as a million and nine days!” I never know quite what he means when he quantifies the unquantifiable, but he said it so emphatically and with his eyes so wide with wonder that I just knew it had to mean something very, very good.
Each night when I give Jane her bedtime blessing, she mouths along in a tiny whisper, hands folded and perfect little eyelashes pressing on her round cheeks as she squeezes her eyes closed so tight: “Teach Jane Joy your way, O Lord, that she may walk in your truth. Unite her heart to fear your name.”
They’re happening more and more, these glimpses of who God has made these children to be. These moments thick with the weight of his glory and their belovedness cause me to rejoice, because God is faithful to even the littlest ones in his kingdom and is hearing our prayers for them and making more of my feeble efforts than I could imagine.
But I also tremble, because there are things that God is doing in them that have nothing to do with me, that are happening despite my inadequacy, that are so utterly beyond the reach of even my most fervent efforts and careful cultivation.
The Holy Spirit that hovered over the waters in the beginning is hovering over the hearts of these precious ones that he formed in my womb, and the sheer glory of the glimpses of the “immeasurable greatness of his power toward us who believe” compels me to open my empty hands, as an act of both receiving what he has mercifully given and releasing any shred of glory that I could claim for myself in raising these kids to know and love him.
I am learning that though my love for my children is inexpressible, there are places in their hearts that I just can’t reach, depths where I will never be able to go, because their hearts were not made for me. They belong, body and soul, to God.
It’s true what C.S. Lewis said, that not one of us has ever talked to a mere mortal. And not one of us mothers has ever raised one either. They were lovingly knitted together out of the abundance of love and life present in the Triune God, that they might know and enjoy him forever.
As I receive these occasional glimpses of who God has made them to be in the midst of the sticky fingers and math homework and snuggles and correction and parenting fails, it’s as if the God who made them is joyfully sharing a very good, beautiful secret with me of a glory that only he knows in full.
And when, by his grace alone, I and these children of mine are transformed together in his presence and made complete in the day of Christ Jesus, I wonder if I’ll catch Jesus watching me watch them and give me a gleeful I-told-you-so glance.
And if he does, all he’ll see is a face filled with wonder, and empty hands still open.