Let the Little Children Come

I stopped writing.  I got scared.  I feel like when I write, I open up parts of myself that need to be shut off forever.  The problem with shutting them off, however, is that they don’t really shut down.  They just come out when my guard is down, namely, at night.  And they don’t go away.  When I relegate those poor little parts into their dungeon, they clamor and fight to be heard, and if they can’t be heard in my waking, they will make themselves known in my sleeping.  And I really want to sleep. Like REALLY want to sleep.  So here’s to hoping that letting them out a little bit here and there will better my nights.  

I am skeptical, however. I am not a child.  I am a grown woman. I don’t want to entertain child parts.  I don’t want to consider any part of myself a child.  I have a big, grown-up body, and I have my own children.  I do the picking up and cuddling.  I take care of little ones.  I am not a little one who needs to be taken care of.  Those days are over.  Those needs were not met, and they never will be.  Thus, it is time to move on, not regress.  But evidently, it doesn’t matter how stubborn I am, I still have frustrating unmet needs.  A couple of weeks ago,  I listened to a sermon on imaginative prayer.  I took the bait, opened myself up, and asked Jesus to show Himself to me.  I was skeptical, as I always am, even though I have seen Him do it before.  He did it again, and I guess that I can’t deny it.  I know that it was Him because it made me spitting-angry.  I was a little tiny one, like under a year old, and He picked me up.  I wrapped my arms around his neck, and my legs around his chest, just like my little one does with me.  It was like it was supposed to be.  

Now as far as the Trinity goes,  I understand that Jesus is separate from God the Father, but in this picture, He showed himself to me in a parental role.  I despise the image of God in a parental role.  Well,  I guess that I just despise the thought of “parent” in general.  But this vision was just so “right.”  Like with my little one, who wraps herself around me when I scoop her up,  I wrapped myself around Jesus.  She doesn’t just “fit” around anyone like she fits around her mommy.  This should be a happy picture, right?  Well, I was furious.  I am the parent.  I am the protector.  I don’t need one.  At least, that is how I feel.  Well, evidently I freaking need one.  And I am ticked.  I am a little kid.  I am actually a bunch of little kids, trapped in a dungeon, and Jesus stepped into my prison and scooped me up.  

Why does something that is supposed to be good feel so dissonant?  Why can’t I accept this act of love and nurture and allow Jesus to love me as a little child?  He makes it so clear that He loves the little children.  Over and over.  Probably more than anything else.  He loves us as children.  But I HATE me as a child.  That’s why I kept those prisons that were created so many years ago.  How do I let Him love me?  How can I breathe in this truth from Him? I am so scared to open back up to Him, because I want no awareness of those broken, hurting child parts.  But doesn’t the awareness usher in healing?  Can I see my little children and let Him welcome them?  The kingdom is theirs.  He loves them, so what right do I have despising them? 

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