If you come over to our house, you likely won’t be able to get out of the car without four little girls lining the driveway to welcome you in. You might desire a moment to yourself before knocking on the door, but you won’t get it because four eager faces are shining at you like the sun, ready for you to get out. (That is if one specific sister hasn’t already tried opening your car door, regardless of whether or not you’ve parked). You’ll have the delight of an entire welcoming committee, which will entail of barely being able to walk to the front door without tripping over a child—but alas—you will enter our home, and without a doubt, the first question you’ll be asked is, “Want to see our nature shelf?”
You might reply with interest, and maybe you won’t, but you will be shown the nature shelf regardless of your purpose for being at our house or your desire to see it. And so, my eldest (most likely) will usher you to their bedroom to show you the sisters’ most prized possession… a glorious collection of bird’s nests, dead cicadas, dead beetles, and many other bugs, rocks, and plants they have found (one might say snuck into the house, but semantics). You’ll be in awe of the precise positioning of every item, and you will endure a long, detailed explanation of where every single dead cicada came from, whether you like dead bugs or not. You might even be invited to hold one, at which point your (adult) host will finally step in and say, “Alright, I think they’ve seen enough!”
Those four shining faces who greeted you at the car will continue to shine bright after showing you their nature shelf because, in fact, they were not just showing you something important to them, they were showing you themselves.
Our daughters, and most children in my experience, are collectors and admirers. They’re “ooo” ers and “ahhh” ers. They delight in big things, but mostly, it’s the small things they really love. They remember details. They sit at the base of a tree and watch an ant colony work without fear of wasting time. They see a butterfly and chase her in wonder of where she might go. They’re curious. They’re interested. Children have this incredible way of noticing.
Lately, I have found myself longing to be like my children. Longing to be able to sit for a while with nothing on my mind except for wondering about the bluebirds flying in and out of the birdhouse as they build their nest. Longing for their easy joy that wells up out of nowhere and at the simplest of things. Longing for the ability to notice, to see, to hear.
I often ask myself, “When did I lose this wonder? When did it drop along the way?”
We have much to learn from children. The longer I am a mother, the more I understand what Jesus said in Matthew 18: “…unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of God. Whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven.”
How humble children are! They worry not about tomorrow. They are not concerned for their reputation or status. Children are not fearful of what others think. They love, they laugh, they sing, they trust, they delight. They’re humble in that they don’t spend their days dwelling on that which is not theirs to dwell. In their humility of simply being a child, they are able to notice, to see, to hear what God is doing in creation. Whether in their imaginary play, or their curiosity in nature, or their creating or drawing or writing or singing, every day all creation is telling a story—and these children—they are listening.
To those of us who’ve lost our way of wonder, He whispers, “I’m telling you the same story.”
There are times when I look out the windows to my backyard and see our girls running in the grass, climbing the trees, bent down observing, and I can almost see myself, full of hope and freedom and life. I can see myself as the six-year-old girl copying any words I can into a black and white notebook, my heart burning with something important to say. I can see myself at five years old, swinging higher and higher, trying to touch my toes to the leaves above, feeling closer to heaven than the ground. I can see myself at four years old digging in the dirt, making pretend meals of mud to serve with pride. I can see myself at two, toddling barefoot in the grass, arms spread just as wide as the smile on my face.
This wonder—this delight—is not meant for just our children. The story of Christ redeeming and restoring is being written before our eyes in the laughs of family around the table, in the change of the leaves, in the frog hopping across the porch, in the voices singing as one on Sunday, in the clean sheets on the bed, in the early morning before the house wakes. To notice the story, to see Christ working, to hear him speaking, we must become like little children again–wondering, delighting, slowing.
God is whispering over and over, “I’m here. Do you notice? Do you see? Do you hear?” And with all creation, might we answer, “I do.”
“The world is whispering–listen child!–
The world is telling a tale.
When the seafoam froths in the water wild
Or the fendril flies in the gale,When the sky is mad with the swirling storm
And thunder shakes the hall,
Child, keep watch for the passing form
Of the one who made it all.Listen, child to the Hollish wind,
To the hush of heather down,
To the voice of the brook at the stony bend
And the bells of Rysentown.The dark of the heart is a darkness deep
And the sweep of the night is wide
And the pain of the heart when the people weep
Is an overwhelming tide–And yet! and yet! when the tide runs low
As the tide will always do
And the heavy sky where the bellows blow
Is bright at last, and blueAnd the sun ascends in the quiet morn
And the sorrow sinks away,
When the veil of death and dark is torn
Asunder by the day,Then the light of love is the flame of spring
And the flow of the river strong
And the hope of the heart as the people sing
Is an everlasting song.The winter is whispering, “green and gold,”
Andrew Peterson, The Warden and the Wolf King
And the heart is whispering, too–
It’s a story the Maker has always told
And the story, my child, is true.”
Logan Hahn
Logan is a part of our Christ’s Church family and also happens to be married to Spencer, our Men’s Discipleship Minister. She loves writing, reading, baking and raising lovely little women.
Pictured here with her husband, Spencer, and daughters, Campbell, Everett, Gritton and Fayette.
