Life Review: Crawl up in Daddy’s lap
A couple months ago, I was sitting in church intently listening to my pastor preaching and teaching his guts out when, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a toddler sitting on her father’s lap. Although I am an unofficial baby whisperer, I don’t usually pay any attention to kids sitting on their parents' laps. It’s just not something on my reticular activator.
Come on, vocabulary.
My church’s services are Holy Spirit-led so, while they are conducted decently and in order, they’re not known for brevity. I love that about my church. In any case, this child was busy during that Holy Ghost-led marathon message. Babygirl had a lot going on.
Her busyness was borderline distracting me, not because she was loud or disruptive, but because I was struck by the daddy-daughter dynamic unfolding before what was likely only something my eyes could see. As a person who has wrestled (does wrestle) with understanding my identity in Christ, watching the daddy-daughter duo catapulted me back in time. My own time. A time when I had supreme confidence in – and a steady, fresh revelation of – God’s Love for me.
I capitalized the ‘L’ in Love on purpose. His Love hits different. It’s capital-letter-worthy. And, even though He’s given me zillions of examples confirming His Love, it’s been a minute since I received It with the same abandon in which He extends it to me.
The characteristics of the child’s relationship with her dad reminded me of an inexplicable knowing. It’s not that I don’t know God now. I do. He’s my Everything, and we’re tight like new brakes. But, there are times when my Daddy-daughter connection – that bold, palpable rest that’s commensurate with my security in Him – takes a hit.
The reason, of course, for the hit says nothing about Him, everything about me and none of it good.
I don’t confess that with any self-condemnation. I’m just not a sugar-coater. I was an elite athlete mentored by some of the top coaches in the world. I understand direct communication in short, blunt sentences. The whole extending-grace-to-myself thing is under construction. Pardon my dust.
Anytime confidence in my relationship with God gets dragged, it’s never because something has shifted with Him. The evidence of which is revealed when, on the heels of my patented proper meltdowns, I inevitably end up saying, “It’s not You, God. It’s me.”
Duh.
When I knew I belonged to Him – and knew my position as a joint-heir with Christ because of that belonging – I behaved exactly like that little girl behaved in church that day.
Here’s what I saw her do in the course of about 90 minutes:
She threw her arms around her dad’s neck
She fidgeted
She hugged him
She rested in his arms
She stood on His lap with no regard for whether or not it made him uncomfortable
She touched his nose
She touched his cheek
She talked to him
She was comfortable
She was acquainted with him
She was relaxed
She looked directly into his eyes
She laughed out loud when he looked back at her
She fussed
She wiggled
She pounded on his shoulders
She made noise when it was time to be quiet
She tried to get away
She tried to stand on her own without his help. She couldn’t.
She looked for a distraction (his phone) to busy herself because being in his arms wasn’t enough for her at that moment
She surrendered in his steady, sturdy, unflinching embrace
Babygirl was unapologetic about all of it. She had drastic behavioral swings, vacillating between compliant and nearly belligerent. One thing was clear, though: she thoroughly expected to be taken care of no matter how often she darted from one mood to the next.
The toddler was exploratory, but never strayed too far from her dad’s embrace. Although she had no frame of reference for what was best for her, she was contentedly yielded to her daddy’s will… eventually. I got the sense that, if her dad had put her down, she would’ve wandered off, but returned to him in very short order. For her, dad’s lap was home base, and she knew nothing bad would happen to her there. She had swag on her dad’s lap. She flexed her privilege on her dad’s lap. It was quite the sight.
I was also acutely cognizant of how daddy handled his child:
Daddy didn’t let go of her
Daddy was patient
Daddy didn’t loosen his hold on her when she fussed and wiggled
Daddy softly corrected her
Daddy held her
Daddy settled her
Daddy calmed her
Daddy picked up what she dropped, but he didn't let go of her when he picked it up
Daddy was unmoved by her movement
Daddy kept everything that wouldn’t be good for her under her feet
Daddy comforted her when she was fitful
When she thought she could stand on her own, daddy kept his hands on her and picked her up again when she was wobbly
Daddy swayed with her
Daddy rocked her
Daddy tightened His grip on her
Daddy shielded her
When she pounded on his shoulders, daddy was unbothered
Daddy stood up and carried her to her next destination
One thought prevailed while I watched their wordless exchange: When was the last time I crawled up in Daddy’s lap and let Him take care of me that way?
Unfamiliar Familiarity
I had to go back many years to answer that question. As of this post’s publishing, I am in the ninth month of a post-layoff job search. I talk about it incessantly. My mornings, noons and nights are consumed with crowded To Do lists, all centered around stopping the bleedings of unemployment, lack and the unthinkable thought that the light at the end of the tunnel is another train.
During these nine months, people who love me – and media ministry people who don’t know me – have been confirming each other’s words: “Rest in Him, Dee. God will fight for you. Stand still. Stand firm. Watch Him rescue you. Rest. Don’t worry. Don’t be afraid. Trust God. Rest.”
Despite being active, the babygirl in her daddy’s lap was at rest. She rested in his safety and security. She rested in her expectation of his care. She rested in the knowing that all her needs – and even some of her wants and desires – were unquestionably met. There’s a straight line connecting my family’s, friends’ and the media ministry folks’ confirming words with the daddy-daughter connection I witnessed. God ministered to me through a toddler and a dude I’ve never met. You don’t have to be Angela Lansbury to figure out what He was telling me through a chubby-cheeked cherub and her unflappable pop. God was telling me, obviously, to trust Him from the same place of rest – in my soul – as that child rested in trusting her daddy.
In addition to all the confirming words about trusting, standing still and resting, there’s been one other directive. It’s an accompanying instruction that satisfies my tendency to be a human doing (rather than a human being). God knows my wiring. He wired me. He designed me to be active. He did not, however, design me to act in futility. So, while I’m in this job search find, He’s also issued this directive to function as seed for a future harvest, and he’s used a few of those same people (including my pastor who doesn’t know me) to deliver the directive.
That directive is why this blog exists, but I haven’t been diligent about it. I’ve been sometimey with respect to planting this seed but, ridiculously expecting it to be nurtured, watered and harvest-producing. I’ve given the urgency of my needs priority over the instruction of my Lord. I’m calling Him my Lord because I know the definition of making Him my Lord – and not just my Savior – means He gets to tell me what to do.
But, I haven’t been consistently letting Him be my Lord. I haven’t been writing on the level of my conviction to write. Instead, I’ve made many other things my lord: bills, worry, fear, panic, the job search, condemnation, doubt, unbelief and the expectation of punishment. Those things have been telling me what to do. And, as a result of giving the wrong things priority, I have not given myself permission to crawl up in Daddy’s lap. It’s a big miss.
Sin happens. Disappointment happens. Trauma happens. Layoffs happen. Other people happen. All of which can threaten our identity and, if we don’t have our identity firmly nestled in the One Who created us, can also assault our foundation. I was recently, lovingly rebuked by one of those friends with a confirming word about my seed-planting negligence. She said my refusal to obey God’s directive to write – which was originally given years ago – has resulted in a delayed harvest today. That harvest is still available, but I have to plant the seed.
I have to write.
Every day. No matter what. No matter who does or doesn’t see it, acknowledge it, like it, share it or respond to it. My obedience begins and ends with simply planting the seed. The seed’s growth, maturation and harvest is not my responsibility. It’s God’s.
And, while I’m writing, resting and casting my cares – once and for all – on the One Who has all the solves, I’m also going to crawl up in His lap and get comfortable there. I may wiggle, fidget and fuss, but I know He won’t allow me to slip, fall or fail.
I’m going to let Him demonstrate, in a way that’s both familiar and brand new, what being His daughter really means. I’m going to put my head on His chest and listen to His heartbeat.
I’m going to let Somebody — with a capital ‘S’ — Love me.