a little girl

Today I was lying on the grass in the park reading and writing and thinking and scowling and concerned that there was definitely a good way to do this thing called life, a more simple way, a more obedient way, a more abundant way, and that I was missing it. I was half praying half brainstorming when I realized that fall was crisp and sort of perfect and I was wasting blue perfection being angsty. That made me even more angsty, so I lay my head down on my hands and just sighed. I think I eeked out, "Help," a simple prayer, before I looked up and saw her.

She was probably 6 years old, with vanilla hair and skin almost as light. I watched her chase a soccer ball. Presumably she was in control of the ball, but you got the feeling the ball was pulling her along, and she chased it. I found myself jealous. Jealous of this happy hearted little girl, knowing that a piece of her was in me, but that if I let her out the other me would yell at her for not being productive. Then I heard her father call, "Mary, don't run a head of us."

I looked back and saw her father, a clean cut gentle looking man, with three other small fair headed girls. I smiled, delighted to be reminded of my family of four girls. I asked if they were all his, and he answered yes, and then turned back, his hands understandably full. Mary was the second oldest, followed by an older toddler, and then one who could barely walk. But the one who interested me was the oldest. I saw her from behind first. She turned when I asked her father a question and looked at me disinterestedly. Her forehead creased, serious and contemplative. She could not have been older than eight. I laughed to myself and watched her. She picked up a heavy soccer bag and walked around with it, following her sisters and father. The bag was almost as big as her, and pulled her little shoulders down. I watched intently now, mesmerized as she lugged this weight around. The family moved their way to the car, the father a shepherd of his little cotton sheep, zig-zagging and guiding and picking up when necessary. Two things then happened that just stunned me.

The grass the entire way to the parking lot was short and crisp, but off to the right, out of the way, was a nasty mess of shrubs and a pile of branches fallen from trees. The three little girls and their father walked relatively straight to the car. But the eldest, let's just call her Jane, walked head down, burdened by bag, for the shrubs. "Honey!" her father called, "Don't walk through that!" She sighed and went around... the long way. I teared up, seeing so clearly myself in her. I watched and waited expectantly.

As they piled their way into the mini van, I just thought, (why not?), wouldn't it be great if she put that bag down. So I prayed and asked God that she would. And I kid you not. This little girl put that bag down, climbed into the van, and they drove away. I got up and sprinted down the heel barefoot, tears streaming down my face, but laughing. A minute later I stood there, bag in hand, rejoicing, but feeling kind of bad that my prayer had caused a little girl to lose her soccer bag. I took it back and found a lost and found (not before I took a picture, of course).

Then I just sat their, rejoicing in my Father, in His sovereignty of the moment, in His love for me, and the way the Bible tells me I am His girl. And I decided, for today at least, to take a lesson from my scowling friend Jane. I'm putting down my burdens (my worries and fears) and leaving them in the dust. I might even play soccer. Okay, probably not, but I'm resting, that's for sure.

"Place my yoke on you and learn from me, because I am gentle and humble, and you will find rest for your souls because my yoke is pleasant, and my burden is light." Matt 11:29-30