by Max Lucado
My daughters are too old for this now, but when they were young—crib-size and diaper-laden—I would
come home, shout their names, and watch them run to me with extended arms and squealing voices. For
the next few moments we would speak the language of love. We'd roll on
the floor, gobble bellies, and tickle tummies and laugh and play. We delighted in each other's presence.
They made no requests of me, with the exception of "Let's play, Daddy." And I made no demands of
them, except, "Don't hit Daddy with the hammer." My kids let me love them.
But suppose my daughters had approached me as we often approach God. "Hey, Dad, glad you're home.
Here is what I want. More toys. More candy. And can we go to Disneyland this summer?"
"Whoa," I would have wanted to say. "I'm not a waiter, and this isn't a restaurant. I'm your father, and
this is our house. Why don't you just climb up on Daddy's lap and let me tell you how much I love you?"
Ever thought God might want to do the same with you? "Oh, he wouldn't say that to me." He wouldn't?
Then to whom was he speaking when he said, "I have loved you with an everlasting love" (Jer. 31:3
NIV)? Was he playing games when he said, "Nothing ... will ever be able to separate us from the love
of God that is in Christ" (Rom. 8:39)? Buried in the seldom-quarried mines of the Minor Prophets is
The LORD your God is with you; the mighty One will save you. He will rejoice over you. You will
rest in his love; he will sing and be joyful about you. (Zeph. 3:17)
Just how long has it been since you let God love you?