My primary ephiphany

Last Sunday we were practicing for our primary program which is this Sunday in front of our entire congregation.  It's the kind of thing that you think will probably be a complete disaster because the practices are so chaotic but then it always works out in the end.

A group of children came up to the podium to practice giving their parts.  One little boy, who is 4 or 5 years old, looked up at me and his lip started quivering.  I knelt beside him and he started to cry and whispered, "I don't want to say my part."

My heart melted and broke a tiny bit too.  I told him he didn't have to give his part and I sent him back to his seat.  Once I'd shepherded who needed shepherding and all the children were singing, I made my way back to the little boy who was sitting in his seat, wiping his tears and crying shuddering sobs.  I knelt by his chair again, my heart swelling with love for this sweet little boy.  I didn't want him to feel bad.   I told him again that it was OK if he didn't want to give his part.  I said, "Will you still sing with everyone?"  He nodded solemnly and I walked back to the front of the room.

I kept thinking about him and the way it made me feel, the compassion and love I naturally have for a tender child--most anyone would feel the same.  I thought about other children in our primary.  I love the ones that deliver their memorized part with poise. I love the ones that glance up at me nervously and whisper, "I forgot my part."  I love the ones that have special needs that make it hard for them to sit still or behave in typical ways.  I love the ones that sing.  I love the ones who the pianist requested to sit near her during the performance because it helps her to hear that little girl.  I love the ones that throw back their heads with abandon and sing off key.  I love the ones who aren't singing because they're fiddling with something or don't know the words because they don't come to church very often.  I love them all.  What I really want for all of them is to be there.  I want them to try their best in their little spheres and if their best is not saying a part this year, that is fine.    

Then I had my epiphany, my lightbulb moment.  I realized that this is the way our Heavenly Father feels about us.  He loves us.  He wants us to show up and try our best.  If our best is less than other peoples' best, I think it's OK with Him.  He still loves us.  He wants us to metaphorically throw our heads back with abandon and sing.  He doesn't care how we sound.

Sometimes I think we're all just a little bit too hard on ourselves.  If we are trying our best (and we know when we are), I think He is happy.  If we're not trying our best and maybe fiddling with something--distracted--He waits patiently for us to sit up and pay attention.  He loves us the whole time.  If I, in my imperfect way can love these children I see every Sunday, no matter what, I know that God, the creator of the entire Universe, loves us with a capacity beyond anything we can understand.

And this whole train of thought all started with a little boy with a quivering lip...

Being with my primary children every Sunday is the best.