|Remember: you are dust|
However, there's a freshness to it too. After he's cried and said he's sorry, and we've hugged it out and I've said I forgive him, we know something we weren't sure about a few minutes before. That is, I'm the dad and he's the son. And even though he's acted out for two straight days, part of me can't blame him. First of all he's four, and that's just his M.O. as the representative for his age group. Second, he reminds me of, well, me.
I told myself a long time ago that if I was going to be able to love God and others every day, I would have to practice a small habit before I rolled out of bed: I'd say, "God is God; I am not."
Isn't that the ultimate boundary? Don't we all need to know it before we begin our day?
You see, this habit, this reestablishing boundaries, is so devastatingly simple you'd think it would stick. Yet I find so many ways to skip it. Why? Because deep down where he's working now, I'm still not convinced that I'm not God.
And when I do confess this simple hierarchy - and it's usually mixed with other confessions - the order is set and I can act rightly. I can worship; I can love; I can see with his eyes.
I need to be more like my four-year-old. At least when he's unsure of the boundaries, he's good at begging me to set them anew.
"What do you tell me?"
"I forgive you."
Before you begin, say it: "God is God; I am not."