The other day I was warming up a bottle for Bax, the massive 3-month-old I care for three days a week. As I scrambled to get the water warm, apply the nipple and screw on the cap, all that I heard was Bax’s half-cries, half-screams.
“Don’t you realize I need to warm this up for you?” I thought. “Of course he doesn’t, but oh how I wish I could just explain that he can’t have the bottle until it’s warm. I wish he could understand.” All of this ran through my mind as the baby continued to wail.
That is you. You are that child to me.
I heard the words clearly in my mind, spoken, I believe, from God the Father. I was taken aback. C’mon, I’m not this foolish, this helpless. But the impression only grew stronger. As much as Bax relies on me, so I rely on God. Whether I know it or not. I cry out in complaint; I’m worried or anxious about some perceived need; I’m angry or impatient. I cannot see all the ways He’s preparing what’s best for me. Warming up the milk.
Even though I pray for love and patience every day, I suddenly realize that the reason I can ask the Father for it is because He is filled with it in perfect measure. I am nowhere near the expertise of a parent when it comes to caring for children, and yet what little I’ve seen has shown me with what great care my heavenly Papa loves me.