“I tell you the truth, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Therefore, whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven”—Jesus. Matthew 18:2-4

Children seem to walk out their freedom far more readily than most adults. I was reminded of this recently, while taking a swim at the local Y and paddled into by flapping arms and a flood of personality. She gave no invitation and offered no formal introduction, but did choose to take immediate interest in my day, as well as my pink shaded swimsuit. To me, however, Lauren’s introduction could’ve best been titled, “Christ in a flower-suited costume.” Her unassuming intention and innocent sincerity lit a blaze on my callous heart. But if I’m honest with you, this wasn’t my initial take on our meeting.

I had just finished a hard swim and was anxiously en route to my busy afternoon. Wading my way toward the pool stairs, however, I was rudely interrupted by this intrusion of sorts. Seemingly out of nowhere, a little five-year-old invited herself into my territory, as if an expected guest, or long lost relative. Her high pitched voice blurted an overly joyous greeting, while my internal time clock forced itself to an abrupt pause. Who did this little diva think she was, and what would it take for her to exit my path? As disheartening as this latter recount may seem, it didn’t take long for the former impression to take blaze. Lauren’s thoughtful words and swelling joy could’ve stopped a freight train, let alone my Scrooge-like selfishness. The shower stalls weren’t going to vanish, I realized, and it would probably be good for my OCD-self to be a few minutes late.

Lauren and I didn’t solve any of the world’s problems, and in fact, didn’t even touch on any of our own. We simply reflected on the shining sun, chatted about her hyper-color swimsuit and marveled at my converging freckles. Yet I can honestly say those minutes with Lauren were some of the most refreshing I’ve ever known. She cared little that our conversation stood in broad daylight, or that any onlooker could’ve overheard, much less joined in. She had no qualms about our colliding space and prioritized full attention on me, even to the extent of dismissing her floating toys. To Lauren, every passing moment offered a gem of opportunity. Every passing word sought an option to love. And this is just how I imagine Jesus to be.

Lauren’s willing availability, humble joy, and unashamed love are no doubt engraved on heaven’s invitation. Each, in fact, assumes a prerequisite in discovering our identity as God’s children—in discovering our dependence in the grip of a heavenly Father’s hand. And so I am dually challenged today, both by the childlike faith of Lauren, as well as the challenging call to embrace my familial placement.

Father, You are good and Your love endures forever. You are the Savior, the Redeemer, the Righteous One. You are the Shepherd, the Lord and Prince of Peace. And God, maybe most profoundly, or even most abundantly, You are the perfect Father. So we ask You today to let us be Your children. Teach us what it means to live as children again, loving unconditionally and living unashamedly. Lord, let us influence and invade territories for the sake of Your name. Let us interrupt protected settings for the sake of Your love. And God, let us become humble children, embraced and confident in the loving arms of our perfect Father. Amen.