Little Hands
One night, after a long stressful day at a job I hated, I had just gotten out of the shower and upon finishing a shave I was relieved to find the razor seemed to have shaved off my day, too. Within the warm water there was just enough grace to take a moment to be more present with my soul. Naked and alone my falsities were stripped away and I saw myself for what I was. I looked in the mirror at how my face had changed over the years. Skinnier now. Eyes sitting slightly deeper in their sockets. A scar on my right side, at the base of the ramp of my nose. A scar on my forehead, slanting diagonally down from left to right. Creases and wrinkles beginning to set in the corner of my eyes. As I stared at my face I wondered at time, how I looked different yet the same, how I felt older but no different than when I was young. My soul has always only been carried by my body and not defined by it. I looked deep into me and seemed to capture the reality of my existence within the reality of God. Then I put both hands on my cheeks and dragged them down, slowly pressing into my skin to contort my face. I saw the separation of myself and my flesh. I reversed directions and came up with my hands, against the grain of the freshly cut hairs. Suddenly, I had a flashback of a feeling of a long buried memory.
I felt my dad’s rough face with my little hands. I crawled on him, stood on him and marveled at him. The light was bright and slanted through the windows as it does in the winter and as it does in our dreams. I loved him without understanding.
I smiled so big, unable to contain my emotions because as a child there was no need. My curly hair bounced and my eyes gleamed with joy. I did not know him as anything except my perfect provider, not as my father but simply as the one who was always there. And the love I had for him was simple and real and instinctual. He was always available for me to explore and there was nothing more fascinating. My little hands, palms and fingers together, dragged against his coarse cheeks, freshly shaven and rough. He was real. I marveled at the strength of my protector. My fingers traced the outline of his hard jawline and I acted on the sudden impulse to smack him, as if I was testing his existence and was thrilled to find his presence had no falsity. He laughed as I giggled and was overjoyed because I had never felt anything so sturdy, so real. I marveled at the strength of my protector.
When Jesus taught us how to pray, he addressed God as “Abba” or “Daddy.” I realized this primitive memory was God speaking to me, “You’ll always be my little boy.” As I played with my dad’s face, testing him and knowing him intimately, his eyes were wide and his mouth was open in a constant expression of surprise and joy. We were both fascinated with each other: the child in wonder at the presence of a strong and true being who defined life thus far for him, and the father who was in awe at the little child he created and loved beyond love.
As I looked in the mirror, twenty-seven years old and still in the dark woods of a quarter-life crisis, I realized what Jesus had in mind when He taught us to address God the Father as “Abba” or “Daddy.” Our relationship with God is like a little child who explores his father’s face with his hands, not even fully understanding, but knowing instinctively he is provider, protector and love. And the father, who lets the child touch his face, is in awe of the beautiful little boy he created and resolves to love him forever, no matter how much he grows up and experiences the fall from innocence and all that comes with it.
No matter what happens as we grow old; the crinkles in our eyes and the scars on our faces, our stupid decisions and ugly self-perception; our failed dreams, unmet expectations and let down achievements, God will always see us as that little child playing with His face.