My oldest son is in second grade, and while he is most excited to share with me the broken mechanical pencil or the abandoned key chain he found in the dirty germ filled crevices of the school bus, I love skimming through all the work he brings home. I know it’s probably the teacher in me, but no worksheet, workbook or journal goes unread (before lining our recycle bin). At the end of the month, TJ always has a writing journal he brings home. My husband and I cracked up as we read one of his stories about winning the Super Bowl. He was the best player on his team. That’s why he won. Clearly, we teach humility in this home. Or not. Whatever. It was cute.
As I was scrolling through his journal this past week, one story in particular caught my eye. The prompt was to write about someone who cares about him. TJ wrote, “I know my dad loves me because I’m his kid.”
He went on to share that they play together. Go places together, and all that other fun dad stuff. However, nothing stood out to me more than the confidence in “because I’m his kid.”
Raising kids of my own, I often look back with admiration on how my parents raised my brother and me. I shudder to think at the amount of money they forked over for me to flip around in a leotard. Not to mention the medical bills that coincides with multiple broken bones. Alas, every meet they were there. My mom even drove through a legitimate Iowa blizzard to get me to one of my gymnastics meets some three hours away from home. Why? Because I am her kid.
I look back at every twirl. Every spill. Every medal and the many participation ribbons for “smiling pretty.” No matter my outcome, I was greeted with open arms and a “Great job, Erica!” Always. I never questioned the amount of their pride based on how good or bad I performed. Win or lose, I was their kid. They loved me.
Today, some twenty years later, all my medals and trophies are shoved in a box in the bottom corner of our basement. They were never proud of my trophies. They were proud of me. I know that still today.
So when I read my son’s writing. The “I’m loved just because,” writing. I feel another sense of pride. I am proud of us, my husband and me. For being the kind of parents we always planned on being.
And doesn’t that make you think, that no matter how old you get, someone loves you just because?
On Sunday, my Pastor shared something that stuck. God doesn’t love you any more or any less. He loves you completely.
Just as my parents loved me the same whether a perfect score or a participation ribbon, we are loved completely by a loving God.
May we all walk in the confidence of my eight-year-old.
We are loved because we are His kid.
As high as the sky is above the earth, so great is his love for those who respect him.
He has taken our sins away from us as far as the east is from west.
The Lord has mercy on those who respect him,as a father has mercy on his children.
Psalm 103: 11-13
Thank you for sharing. Let’s be friends on Facebook.