Recently, at bedtime, I handed Jonah some pajamas and told him to put them on. He looked dubiously at them. "But Mommy... I wanted the green jammies..." he whined, referring to an old, green, footed sleeper with Pooh on it, sans footies-- those having been cut off long ago when one of my brothers wore holes in them.
"Jonah, those are in the wash. These are the jammies I have for you to wear tonight."
"But! No thank you! I waaaanted the greeeeen ones..." He seems to think he can get his way if he's polite about it.
"Look! These have a fire truck on them! Isn't that great! A fire truck!"
The whining continued in spite of the fire truck.
"Jonah, you will put them on or you will be in trouble."
So, sobbing and crying, he slowly put them on, carrying along with the sad lament: "No thank you! I'm just very saaaaad. I'm just not feeling well. I wanted the green ones. No thank you!" As he slipped a leg in, "I'm very, very, very sad." Pulling the shirt over his head, "No thank you." Oh, so melodramatic. Sobbing pitifully, "I'm just not feeling well. No thank you. I'm very sad."
I should probably have disciplined him for his complaining attitude. But I didn't. I sat there in the chair and silently watched him.
I thought, Wow. Here, I have given him something very good for him-- clean, warm pajamas. And I thought he would be so excited about the fire truck on them. But he's complaining. He wants something else. This must be how God looks at me. I truely am a "child" of God. I complain just like this. God must say, "Here, I have given you something very good for you, and you complain." I'm polite about it, right? "Oh, Lord," I say, "this is NOT what I had in mind. This hurts, Lord, I don't want it. No thank you." Huh. I sound just like my own son. Not lightly are we called "children" of God.