Growing Down
by Laurence Windham

I've never got over the fact that God loves me. I speak here of emotion. Of course it is not just an emotive state that I have found myself "saved" to, there are cognitive, informational dimensions as well, but it has always been something that I feel. You know, kind of like being a favored son.

Years ago, before God intruded into my own little world, I was no casual enemy. My rebellion was proactive and destructive, even to myself. That last fact became such a subliminal reality that hate soon turned to hopelessness. All promise of worth and fulfillment began to slip away causing a deep detachment from all of life. My affection for self-destruction began to grow. I started to love Death.

But instead of dying, I was reborn. God's grace in salvation and adoption are experientially synonymous, and the resulting awareness of His presence is surely accompanied by a certain outlook on life. As one friend remarked, "Laurence, you have never doubted God's love for you, have you?" I can honestly say that I never have.

There is also tremendous responsibility that comes with this truly mystical relationship. No pressure really, just an incredibly strong desire to please. Obedience becomes a familial aspect of life. Introspection is motivated by gratitude. Meditation and contemplation become a practice and a pleasure.

So… I walk through the woods with a sense that I am being watched. I smile and talk out loud. Prayer is as natural as conversation. That doesn't mean that it is necessarily casual in tone and content, but most of the time it is when in the care "alone" I often sing. Tears usually course down my cheeks so I wear shades and hope no one else notices. This is a concert of one, for One.

Rain is something to go hiking in. Moving through something ordained and tangible. This splashy, scary stuff that once wiped out all living things. Dad has turned on the sprinkler. It's time to play. The delight of His handiwork in the colors of butterflies, wildflowers and sunsets could have remained vividly clear within the confines of His own infinite mind, but He displays them for my enjoyment and, in turn, I know more about my Father and regularly marvel at His perfect us of color, texture, and staging.

Every time I watch a film or read a book I see shadows and illusions of reality. There in the prose or in the plot, is a portion or parable of His message, or His story. I snicker seeing the Truth that the author and screenwriter cannot escape but portraying in some way. They have my Dad's law written on their hearts! Tragedy, comedy, tension, resolution, foreshadowing, irony, plot twists, they all belong to Him. These amateurs borrow, with impunity, His ideas. Everything they do is a combination of blatant plagiarism and creative dishonesty. All of them fail to reference the book and the life, which their film is a derivative of. The most that they can do is dump colored suds in the fountain of "inspiration" that has flowed since story began. Even the boldest antithesis uses the audience's awareness of the right to display the wrong. Ha! Even this is His doing!

Atheists are jesters. Agnostics are clowns. The inane arguments they present are simply scripts written for them before the foundation of the world. They proclaim a non-sense that they cannot defend, even when they try. Their parody hopelessly implies the truth. They they continue their performance as marionettes, and since God laughs, so do I.

Giving thanks at mealtime seems to always be too brief. Even though sometimes we take time to sing before we pray at the table. But "saying grace" is really just an audible continuance of grateful language from a child's heart. A ceremonial pause before the tasty sustenance provided by a heavenly Father who knows all my needs. And with the required physical need of nourishment, He has added a wonderful combination of bitter, salt and sweet.

My Father found me a wife. In this, He teaches me to be a man. I learn quickly about strength and tenderness. Leading her is a labor of love… when I am being wise. But when I am stupid, we have problems. And I have found that stupidity comes in many subtle forms. But two become one and that can be fun. She, from He, completes me.

When wresting with my children and seeing the boundless delight in their eyes as they enjoy this special type of contact with their father, I know with assurance that the same light is in my own eyes when I take communion. In pain and sickness, my thoughts immediately turn to God. I know where grace comes from. I enter His throne room with the brash naiveté of a child. He has been anticipating this. I bow in my heart and pour out my complaint. I leave knowing either strength and wisdom will be given or deliverance is on the way.

Perhaps the best part of the relationship is talking to Him about my concerns. I am sure that I speak foolishly most of the time. I am hasty in my requests and short on spending time with Him. Too often I show up just to pour out my concerns with the same endearment that teenage boys have then they come home from college for the weekend. They dump their dirty clothes off for their mom to wash and off they go with their childhood friends. I feel bad about this more than guilty. Such great love from God can only , even when we are at our best, be taken for granted. So I repent often. With assurance I know that He knows my frame. He remembers that I am dust. But He never forgets He is my Father.

I never doubt that He is there and I know that He hears what I say. I leave my petitions and desires with Him. Knowing He will always do what is the wisest thing. I wait to see how He responds. Often enough, He acts contrary to my desires. This has always been good and I try to learn the reasons.

All the scriptural injunctions from His Word that call the redeemed to obedience, I take as personal mail. Before each command, there is always a reminder of what our heavenly Father has done for us. I have never, ever, ever, forgotten this.