“Daddy look what I have.”
What does he but ask, directing my attention only but a moment from the regimented activity I have entertained myself repeatedly for infinitely longer then but the moment he request’s?
How cold has it become the soul of my mind, the cruel sound of my own words void of light;
as I hustle him from before view, with an unconcerning brush of my hand, to not distract my eye but a moment from yet again some meaningless endeavor playing before me in spectacle, who’s outcome will grant no effect in my life or that of any around me. When did I become so selfish?
But harder yet, the image I certainly must face, in this life, if not the next, as to the look I certainly know his face showed, as he turned in disappointment and walked away. That sweet saddened face as yet again a father pushes aside, looking inward as to try to find but a reason why his father does not have time for him. He walks away head down, but to hide the tear, a tear yet again for it must be him.
What a fool I have been, says this so selfish father I see before me. How many treasures has his son had, that this father was not there to share? Gifts given if but to see, the child’s presentation handed with love for an opportunity but to share, in a piece of what has become a essence of his growth, a part of what is to become him, forever missed, never to share.
How many games did he play, where an unexpected and even miraculous catch was made, just to see in his minds eye a son who looks to the crowd, searching for a father’s absent smile to share. A fish on the line without the fathers strong hand to help the excitement that must surely ascend. Where smiles of joys become frowns of pain, for no other reason then the inward cries of his own shame. Why is he not there?
Does dad not even care, what did I do?
It must be that, because it is not lack of love, for does he not encase that love, for I love him? So slithers the voice in his sweet ear.
No it must be me, the small child says, until one day he stops lifting small hands, and no longer looks to the crowd. Again the snake laughs.
“Look at what I made,” my baby says.
When is pride a good thing? When is it balanced on the tone of a soft spoken song gently resonating into an ear of One that never gets to tired to hear? A symphony of tones creating fields of flowering scents in life’s pure love.
Maybe each and every time a heavenly blessed child brings that jewel of discovery before a Perfect and Good Father. Before an eye that never looks away, from the small hands that so want to praise.
What could be greater in the treasury of a good Father’s praises, the coffer’s of treasures at His feet, then all of the gift’s his most precious child would offer to see. Wanting but to share in his life’s most delicate flower’s as the subtle peddles are held in those most cautious fingers, softly holding up for but a Father to touch, how could His heart not burn with joy.
How could He? Let me but try.
Being a father myself as well, I can but give a taste of what I might feel, a glance at the table of such a feast, one of healing, life, light, and love.
When I take but a moment, and give love’s look, for the Good Father is this without end, I can tell you that my heart burst’s with a joy that can not be contained, an exploding star pressing within the edges of my mind, fires burning un-contained, filling a spirit with every essence of God’s good that ever was the thought and purposed in this His creation.
That even the Father must find it hard, with shimmering strain, to see through the rivers of tears that burst forth from His own eyes, when presented with but a glimmer of love and joy on a face of whom exhibit’s with all of its pure peaceful majesty, a small child, his small gift, difficult but well does He manage.
The shear joy in both Father and son, an exchange, but also blending of spirit, as they in their turn both receive good. So can He not refuse as His son with each and every gift, bring hungering hand to the feet of the Father, a golden gift, a cherished alter, where a good and faithful son so cherished his praises bring.
Rose scented offering’s, gliding whispering’s, that transcend without encumbrance through the darkened halls of this age, passing malice and malcontent on their journey’s narrow path, bringing this sweet child’s soft gift to a Father’s waiting bosom. A prayer without end, a gift of all jeweled majesty, bringing but for a moment a smile across the face of a Christ, if but a moment, but as well for all time, for both in but one, can so flow in the heart of a Father that can never forget, never tire, see only love before His eyes, the gift of love so freely given, freely given by the child.
The product of a difficult job well done, that perfect spelling test, a son’s first home run, his hard earned “C” grade, or a truly spectacular catch, that so pretty picture sketched from the hand of a man’s perfect child, a gift of but a clay model of undistinguishable shape, so pure is the praise of such a gift. So equal are the tears of joy such a good Father feels.
How special to experience but, oh so much more when the Father is there to see. Oh so much more the experience of a father, seeing the joy, the life, in the eyes of My child, when you come to Me.
A gift of Praise.
By Peter Colla
“Dear Lord, let me never miss a single chance to experience that perfect gift You dear Jesus have given me as a father, but also as a representation of the Father, let me bless but a fraction You bless each and every time we come to You with hands held high, in true, acceptable, and noble pride.”