Until I had children of my own, I didn’t understand why my grandma had saved all that trash, and, in fact, my wife and I usually only save our children’s work until they leave the room. As soon as we’re sure they’re gone, we bury it in the trash can. We have to bury it: if one of them goes to throw something out and sees their work in the trash, it hurts their feelings. We don’t want to hurt their feelings. But we also don’t want the clutter.
Once in a while, though, one of my daughters says, “I made this for you,” and she really means it, and isn’t just saying that because she doesn’t know what to do with her wet, glue-coated, sticky craft. When that happens, I put that picture on the refrigerator--which every young child knows is the preeminent spot in the house and is to be used for the accomplishments that make parents proud of their children.
Although I quit making crafts for my dad in a time before my memory begins, I did spend most of my life trying to impress him. He’s a brilliant thinker, a professor, a better-than-average musician and now a missionary. At one of my multiple jobs, I run into people who have known him professionally for years, and many of them have told me that he is the smartest person they know. Even if he were an idiot, though, I cannot imagine anyone being a better earthly father. So, I want to make him proud.
Recently, though, I was praying in my car, on the highway, on the way to the gym, and something in me changed. I switched from wanting to make my dad proud to wanting to make God proud. I have professed, as long as I can remember, that God is more important to me than my dad is. I have always known that He is the only one I need to please, but as I was praying that day I felt my mind, my emotions--my guts even--switch from father worship to Father worship. And then the Holy Spirit filled my jeep and I started weeping and almost wrecked my car.
Recently, though, I was praying in my car, on the highway, on the way to the gym, and something in me changed. I switched from wanting to make my dad proud to wanting to make God proud. I have professed, as long as I can remember, that God is more important to me than my dad is. I have always known that He is the only one I need to please, but as I was praying that day I felt my mind, my emotions--my guts even--switch from father worship to Father worship. And then the Holy Spirit filled my jeep and I started weeping and almost wrecked my car.
Someday I’m either going to die or meet the Lord in the air, and I’m going to get a tour of His house. In one room, maybe over the mantle, I will see the mouth-sword of Revelation 19. He might show me his many crowns if I ask to see them. He probably has them in a giant closet. His living room has to be giant, too, to get the throne in there. It’s hard to even imagine what other rooms God has in His house. Maybe it’s just the one huge throne room, with some nice couches for guests. He definitely doesn’t have a bathroom, and I don’t think He has a kitchen, either. After all, He is the bread of life and a river flows from his throne. I hope He has a refrigerator door somewhere, though. Wherever that door hangs, I hope that my humble, pasted-together life will be magnet-ed to it. And someday I will point to it and say to Him, “I made that for you.”
