These are my actual jeans. Notice anything odd about them? (Hint: It’s the knees.)
I acquired these pants at different times, and I’ve worn them in steady rotation over the last four years, but when I bought them, none of them had holes or weird dye jobs (a fashion plate, I’m not).
I earned these worn-out knees.
From scooting backwards over the carpet as my baby took her first steps.
From washing her matted-up toddler hair in a wet bathroom.
From catching her as she runs to me crying over not getting the pink donut at preschool.
I earned them by hitting my knees over and over and over, crouching down to meet my child where she’s at: in her joy, her excitement, her play; in her anger, her fear, her sadness, her mess.
I like to imagine that God wears jeans with worn-out knees, too.
That He earned those rips and fades from all the times He’s dropped down on His knees to meet me at my level.
To encourage me to keep moving forward.
To wash me clean when I’m a mess.
To comfort me when I’m being ridiculous.
That the wear at His knees shows the love in His heart. That it’s visible to the entire world as He walks through it.
That I’m never too old to be a child of God.
“As a mother comforts her child, so will I comfort you.” [Isa 66:13 NIV]
