I've been thinking back to the summer nights when the daylight lasted forever and I tried desperately to trick my parents into letting me stay up just a bit later. Most often, it was with a million pleadings all beginning with, "tell me the story of when..." followed by some family event or milestone in my growing years.
Tell me the story of when I ate plants.
Tell me the story of when I learned to read. (Age 4 by the way... genius = me)
Tell me the story of when I was born.
And part of the reason I needed to know so much about my origins and place in the family is because for years I was completely confident that I was adopted. This theory has been blown to bits as I've aged and developed into a female version of my daddy. At the time it really seemed logical to have been picked up off the street in a Moses basket. And the other part of the reason I needed to know where I came from and how I belonged to my parents is because deep down we all just want to belong to something or to someone.
Because I remember reaching for the hand of a parent because I belonged to them and needed to stay with them so I didn't get lost.
And I can remember going to college and trying out numerous clubs and social groups trying to fit into somewhere.
And I still love to say to my husband "I'm yours" and rest knowing that we belong to each other forever even though they don't play that Jason Mraz song anymore.
I guess we can do that with God too but the stories wouldn't always be so pretty.
Tell me the story of when I denied you.
Tell me the story of when I decided my way was better.
And still, tell me the story of how I am your child and tell me about the great love you have lavished on me.
It feels good to belong.