It doesn’t occur to him that he shouldn’t be there. He doesn’t wonder if he has permission, or even if he needs permission. My six-year-old son walks to the front of the church, up the three steps to the platform on which our pastor, Nathan, sits, putting the finishing touches on his message. The musicians are all singing. Oblivious to the microphones, people watching, or the worship all around him, Bobby scoots back in the chair, feet dangling. He looks up suddenly, scoots over to the side of the chair closest to Nathan, and leans back again, content. I watch,
smiling, thinking of my God and the faith of a child. That’s how we’re to approach Him. Boldly. Not hesitating, not being hindered by all the reasons someone else might think we’re not worthy to be up there right next to the King. Side by side, sitting in His chair, leaning on His arm, leaning over to whisper things to Him as they cross our minds, smiling with the sheer delight of being with Him. It doesn’t matter that the heavenly host is singing all around, or that the cherubim are circling and fanning up His glory. All that matters — the only thing — is that He loves us. He could be annoyed by the interruptions; He could shush us and say that he has more important things to do. But He doesn’t. He lovingly listens and sits with us. Nathan’s patient tolerance reminds me that God, too, has time for His children. All of them, always.