I was sitting on the couch trying to soothe Corban to sleep when Isabelle crawled up next to us, laid down on her stomach, looked me in the eye and said, “I’m my meeting. I’m praying.” Then she put her head down and said something that sounded like, “Dear God, you love you.” Recently, she’s been dancing around the house singing her version of a song that has the word “Hallelujah” in it. And just about every time we leave the house, she thinks we’re going to church or Sunday school.
This humbles me. Having not been raised in this way, I’m continually amazed by her absorption of our faith practices, and I’m thankful that in some way, I must be doing something right. On those days when I don’t feel like a very good Christian (whatever that’s supposed to mean), the whispered prayers of a 2-year-old encourage me.
I thought about how Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me,” and how He didn’t have to coerce, bribe or in any way entice the children to come to Him. They were on their way. It was the adults who hesitated. It’s still us adults who take our time coming to Jesus, whether it’s for the first time for salvation or with our everyday troubles or for whatever reason. I see how easily Isabelle accepts Jesus as part of her life and I wonder, “Why is it so hard for me?”
“I tell you the truth, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven,” Jesus told a group of disciples when they wanted to know who was the greatest.
Some days, I ask the same question.
A friend recently shared that her 4-year-old daughter disappeared upstairs for a while, and when she came back down, told her mother that she’d been praying to Jesus.
The kingdom belongs to such as these. Amen and amen.