ADDY, PLAY BALL WITH ME IN THE HALL!” MY SON SHOUTED. THE GAME began without instructions or rules—a bad idea when playing ball in the house with a 2-year-old.
It was almost his bedtime and I was tired, but his pleading look wore down my resistance.
“OK, but you need to go to bed soon,” I said as I batted the ball down the hall.
We played nonstop. Back and forth went the ball, my son rolling with laughter. He found it particularly funny when the ball ricocheted off the side walls, and he would crumple into a pile of giggles.
“Do it again, Daddy!” he yelled.
Loving every minute of his laughter, I obliged by hitting the ball even harder against the wall. The effect was instantaneous: more peals of delighted laughter! I’m a genius, I thought to myself.
Then the thought struck me: If I hit the ball from floor to ceiling, it would be even more fun than side to side. So, I caught his next kick and prepared for a monstrous floor-to-ceiling shot. It was a hit to be proud of; that is, until ?I watched in disbelief as the ball shattered the light fixture directly above my son’s head. Shards of glass fell like rain onto his upturned face. Blood spattered everywhere. I grabbed my screaming son and pulled him onto my lap, not caring that blood was drenching my clothes.
My wife—the calm one—handed me a towel with one hand and called 9-1-1 with the other. She waited patiently while I applied the towel to my son’s forehead and then checked the damage. It wasn’t as bad as expected, but it probably would require stitches.
How could I have been so stupid? I thought. Why didn’t I follow the rule of not throwing the ball in the house?
“Daddy,” my son said as he looked up into my face, “will you snuggle me on the way to the doctor?”
My heart melted and my eyes began to flood with tears. Why would he want me to snuggle him after what I was responsible for doing to him?
“I would love to snuggle you,” I choked in reply while gathering him into my arms.
Later that night, after the doctor had cleaned the gash on his head and superglued it together, I sat on the couch holding my son. Tears streamed down my face as I told him I was sorry for hurting him.
“I love you, Daddy! Please keep snuggling me,” was his response.
At that moment I began to understand more fully the love of God. It’s astounding! He loves me even more than I love my son. His love shouts from the pages of Scripture. His love echoes from the cross. His love bursts from the grave.
“For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life” (John 3:16).
It sounds so simple, but the concept has confounded people for centuries. God isn’t waiting to zap us when we make a mistake. The Holy Spirit isn’t keeping track of each wrong choice. Jesus isn’t hoarding His righteousness so He can dispense it to those who “really deserve it.” Instead, God sent His Son to the world to rescue us from our sins. He eagerly waits for us to cry out to Him so He can wrap us in His everlasting arms and throw our sins into outer darkness, where they belong. He is longing to create a new life for us.
Like my son, who wanted to be snuggled by his father, I want to be snuggled deep in the arms of Jesus, where I can rest assured that He loves me and will never leave me.
How about you?
________________
Eddie Heinrich (above, right) is director of youth ministries for the Northern California Conference. This article was printed January 14, 2010.
