This is Honest Toddler. He's not our toddler, at least not that we're aware of, but his tweets make us suspicious as they eerily reflect the life we're living with our wee lad.
So you know, Asher throws this fit yesterday. All out rage as he flings shoes and socks off in the car. It's already been one of those days and he'd had it with the wait time. As we turn into our parking lot, he is all despair and resignation: slinking back in his chair, staring out the window, sighing big tears. We pull into our space and of course there's like an armful of car crap I've got to take into the apartment, and here is our own honest toddler, barefoot and needy. It's 40 degrees out, just too cold to walk, and his tender toes touch the ground with a whimper.
He is tired and apologetic without words, and with my left arm full of the car crap, I pull him up with my right arm. He barely hangs on, chubby legs wrapped around my thigh, fingers curled on my collar, whimpering still.
I am juggling all the things a life with three kiddos entails: the socks, the shoes, the homework, the jackets, the Woody doll. And my little guy, he's just holding on for dear life. He trusts me, but he's scared and tired and cold and he can't make it to the door on his own. We make it, just barely, and I set him down for a brief moment on the cold concrete so I can open the door and let him in.
Here you go, babe.
I am holding on for dear life, fingers curled around His collar, wrapped around His sturdy frame. I trust Him, but I am scared and tired and not sure I can make it to the door on my own. In His left arm he juggles the world, the real problems, the crap that comes with fallen nature and sin and death.
And in His right arm, He carries weak, whimpering me... and as we near the door - we are so close to the door - my feet dangle towards the cold floor.
Where are you with God right now? Maybe we can hang on together...