Love like a Child

Author's Note: the following is a revised repost from the days before I had faithful readers.  It was Summer 2008 when I worked part time at a day camp.

 This afternoon I was playing "kickball" with some kids.  We just kicked the soccer ball to each other, and the group changed every few minutes.  A few five year olds, a six year old, a seven year old, and an eight year old.  Eventually the bigger kids left and the five year olds had grown bored with "kickball."  They moved on to "Let's make the teacher into a jungle gym."

When will that new playground be completed?  The word "headache" means nothing to some five year olds.

An eight year old and I sat in the grass while the two five year olds ran back and forth between us leaping into our arms with the goal of knocking us over.

Ultimately, I was lying flat on my back with both of them in my lap giggling hysterically.

"I love you, Miss Katie," one of them said to me.

"I love you more!" the other countered.

"I love you both the most!" I responded.

Why do they love me? Five minutes ago they had to ask my name. They love me because I stick up for them (ten year olds tend to wreak havoc on "kickball" games), I get the ball when it rolls in the street (when will that new playground be done?), and I let them climb all over me (does it have monkey bars?).

God does a whole lot more for us than that, yet we still hesitate to tell Him we love Him. I might step out in front of a car to protect these girls, but I probably wouldn't willingly died a painful death for them.  Yet Christ did, but sometimes I'm more willing to tell the girls of my love than I am Christ.

Tell Someone you love Him. Tell Him thanks.

Then spread the love tell someone else you love them. (And don't let it be me). Then tell them He loves them. (I already know that, so you still can't tell me).

Love,
<>< Katie

"Jesus said, 'Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.'" Matthew 19:14

Favorite

Katie: I'm going to go upstairs now before one of those cookies leaps off the pan and into my mouth.
Mom: One already leaped into Dad's mouth.
Katie: They're my favorite.
Mom: I thought the rugelach was your favorite?
Katie: It is.  And Grandpa's Favorite Cookies are my favorite too.

Huh?  Katie, you can't have three favorite cookies.

Actually, I can.  If Peder Eide can have five favorite children, I can have three favorite cookies.

Peder [to his middle son]: Ethan, guess what?  You're my favorite.
Ethan: Cool!
Peder: Ethan, guess what?  Allison's my favorite.  And Taylor?  He's my favorite.
Ethan: Let me guess, Makenzie and Teshome are your favorite too?
Peder: Yup!  You are all my favorite!
Ethan: That's not as cool, Dad.

I understand Ethan's plight.  My sisters and I used to drive our father nuts asking him who was his favorite.  Now he says his favorite number is one-two-three.  He leaves us all notes proving he loves us each the most.

That just doesn't make sense.  I can't have three favorite cookies.  Peder can't have five favorite children.  Dad can't love us all the most.  It's not possible!  Or is it?

Why can't it be?

Friend, you are God's favorite.  He loves you the most.

He loves you so much He engraved your name on the palm of His hand. (see Isaiah 49:16).

He sent His Son to earth to be born in a dirty manger, to grow up in a world that disagreed with Him, to be brutally killed, to be raised again from the dead.  All because He loves you.  All because you're His favorite.

How does that make you feel?

Excuse me now while God's favorite daughter catches the favorite cookie that is flying at her mouth.

<>< Katie

ILYTM

In my family, we love Post-It notes.  They decorate our house with their plethora of colors and meanings.  A Post-It on the liquor cabinet contains a phone message.  A Post-It at one's spot on the kitchen table means "Do this as soon as you're done eating breakfast."  A Post-It on the fridge says, "Mom, please go to the store."  A Post-It on the light switch at the top of the stairs stakes claims for the first shower in the morning.  The Post-Its on my bedroom door, bedside table, and pillow are my personal favorite.  They all read the same thing.  I know my sisters each have a collection of the same Post-Its.  That makes them a lie but a cherished lie.

Every time Dad leaves overnight on a business trip or something, he leaves four identical notes across the house.  While we were growing up, they were always tucked in the collars of polo shirts and left on pillows.  What we did with these shirts showed our varying personalities.  Christina wore hers as a nightgown every night until Dad's return.  Laura cuddled with hers like a blanket, enjoying Dad's smell all night long.  I was the first to lose my polo shirt privilege thanks to the constant questioning of whether or not it was clean.

At the end of Dad's trip, the polo was returned, washed, and worn.  The Post-It became a bookmark.  A trophy.  A reminder.

I love you the most.  Dad.

Of course, he can't love four people the most, but he claims he can.  That means we can all claim Dad loves us the most and we have the note to prove it.  After all, he always says his favorite number is "one-two-three."  As Number One, I think he loves me the most since he says my number first.

Happy Father's Day! 
Dad, I love you the most!
<>< Katie