I sat on a bench warmed by the summer sun, watching my four-year-old dart through the sprays and sprinkles of water at our local splashpad. Giggles and squeals filled the humid air. Tiny feet slapped wet concrete. Children chased each other through the fountains, shrieking with the particular joy that only cold water on a hot day can produce.
My eyes followed my son as he made his laps, and then I heard it.
"Do you want to play with me?"
Silence. He kept moving. He stopped in front of a little girl.
"Do you want to play with me?"
"No, I'm playing with her."
My mama heart cracked open right there on that bench. A tear slipped down my cheek, hidden behind my sunglasses. I watched him absorb the no and keep going — circling again, stopping again, asking again. Child to child. Group to group. The same question, the same open hand extended, no matter how many times it came back empty.
I wanted to rescue him. Every instinct I have said, go fix this. But I knew this was his moment to take the lead, not mine. So I stayed on my bench, and I thanked God quietly that my son seemed, somehow, unfazed — and I thought of Jesus.
Because this is exactly what He does.
