I’m convinced that the scene around Jesus involved some pretty rambunctious children. The disciples probably wanted to swat the kids like they were annoying flies, pestering and poking Jesus’ bros incessantly. And as the frustration grew on the disciples’ faces, Jesus sensed their disdain and took the chance to teach a lesson. He said, “Let the little children come to me and do not hinder them.” When he said this, it wasn’t the mellow, docile-as-meek-lambs, Norman Rockwell-type atmosphere. Even as he said it, I’m guessing he had two tykes riding “horsey” on his knees while another two or three used his sinewy frame as an ancient jungle gym, all while two or three others braided his long hair. And undoubtedly Jesus loved every minute of it. He realized of course that there aren’t too many things as refreshing and inspirational as a little child.
To live like a child is to fully live life. My son Carter, otherwise known in Team Hiemstra as the C-Dawg, walks through life on full throttle. Well, in so much as one can figuratively walk without technically being able to literally walk. Perhaps it would be sufficient to say that Carter scoots through life on full throttle, and there’s much I could learn from him. Sure, it may not necessarily go over that well to walk into my principal’s office and plead for new textbooks with the same urgency and volume and emotion that Carter asks for his sippy cup, but I’m guessing that my most enlightened and progressive boss would be quite delighted if I showed the kind of passionate beseeching that my son shows whenever he wants something. That’s not to say, of course, that I don’t already show that dedicated, earnest passion for learning and touching the future one student at a time. Perhaps the little guy had to pick up the passion from somewhere.
This particular “Compilation Sunday” photo says so much about what it means to live life as a child. To an adult, a bowl of ice cream is a heaping mound of saturated and unsaturated fat, a pile of more calories than one would find in all of a health addict’s pantry. To a child it’s a mountain of delight that’s on a one-way glory-land trip to the bottom of his stomach. A child doesn’t exactly care or even think about the potential stain factor of cookies and cream on his new clothes. He devours with reckless abandon, cranking the spoon into the ice cream and up to his lips so fast he could set the roof of his mouth on fire. The last bite remaining in the bowl isn’t a time for melancholy sadness; instead, it’s an indecipherable squeal that can be roughly translated, “Geronimo! I’m going in after it.” And go in after it he does, the chocolaty battle scars drawn about his mouth, the oreo-smeared smile after the final drop the testimony of the victory over the icy goodness.
Yes, I can learn a lot from my son, and as I watch him move and scoot and cry and screech, I vow to live life a little more with the throttle revving. Sure, it may be quite a few years before any one of my relatives or colleagues ever does me the favor of offering to bounce me up and down on his knees, but when it does happen, I know what I’ll do. I’ll shout at the top of my lungs in the highest-pitched voice imaginable, “‘Gin, ‘gin, ‘gin, ‘gin,” never wanting the fun to end and being completely captured in the moment. Perhaps it’s a disturbing image for some, but metaphorically, I’m guessing I can apply that kind of zeal to quite a few situations in my life.
Thanks, C-Dawg.
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