I didn't see the bit of dirt on his cheek. He certainly didn't. But his dad did. And like any good dad, his dad didn't want him to go to Sunday school with dirt on his face. So he brushed it off. His big rough calloused hand reached up to his young sons face and brushed away the offending bit of dirt even before anyone else had noticed it. The boy didn't flinch. He didn't draw away from the hand that reached to help him. I know for a fact that that same hand has dealt out punishment to this child. That hand rocked this child's cradle and handled a tiny baby spoon to feed him. That hand wiped tears, cleaned up vomit, enforced rules, and shaped this boys life. And the child trusts the hand. In spite of the times when it has dealt punishments there is no fear in this boy that his father will hurt him. The boys father is good. His son knows this because he knows his father. He sat still that Sunday morning while his dad brushed away the dirt from his face and in his sitting still the hand of God reached down and ever so gently brushed a piece of dirt from my heart.
My Father's hand has cradled me. He has wrapped the fingers of His love around me like a warm and swaddling blanket. His arms have sheltered me from storms that I thought would tare me limb from limb. I know His comfort. I also know His punishment. I know the conviction of the Holy Spirit deep within my heart stirring and prodding me over some 'small' sin or the other. I know what it is to be brought crashing to my knees pleading for mercy. I know the truth of the verse that says "Whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth." Got that. And I realized watching that boy with his Daddy that I don't show that kind of trust when the hand of my Father reaches to wipe away a bit of dirt from my face. The scene that Sunday would have been dramatically different if the boy had reacted to his dad the way I react to God too often! He would have grabbed his wrist and pushed it away bellowing loudly that he liked the bit of dirt! That it was something he had carefully put there himself and that his dad had no right at all to brush it away. If that didn't work he would probably have fallen off the bench to the floor crying and begging that his dad not take the speck of dirt from him because it was so precious to him, or everyone else had one, or it would be so embarrassing to suddenly show up in front of everyone with no speck of dirt! How foolish. How utterly ridiculous that would be! We would all say that the boy needed a great deal more of that punishing. And we would be right. And yet this is precisely how I so often act when God wants to do a cleansing or shaping work in me. My Father's hand is not always gentle, but it is ALWAYS good. It does not always feel as if He knows what He is doing, but in the end I can ALWAYS see that His way is best. I want to trust Him more. I want to bear it patiently and willingly when He needs to brush my face clean. I want to learn from my wise young friend the valuable lesson he taught me that day without ever saying a word.
