The Gospel the Children Preached: Reflections on Belonging

The end of August in Colorado Springs means hot afternoons that melt into perfect evenings, free of mosquitoes or humidity. The little girl on my lap points to the mountains. “Did you see the sunset?” she asks, as if we haven’t been gazing at it for the last fifteen minutes, watching the colors change.

“I did,” I say, smiling. “It’s beautiful.”

This is an understatement. The sky is shot with every shade from luminescent orange to dusty lavender, breathtaking, and I am doing my best to absorb it all. The task is made more complicated by the saturation of sheer loveliness I am surrounded by: three inquisitive kids, their generous parents, a friend of theirs who is quickly becoming a friend of mine, and the remains of a gorgeous spread of food on the table. A puppy slumbers in the husband’s arms and the kids clamber onto the deck banisters for better vantage, their hands and mouths full of toast and cherry jam.

It feels suspiciously like home.

I’m a bit unnerved by it, if I’m being honest. It seems to good to be true. Adjusting to being an adult—a nearly fully fledged one, out of undergrad and living a real, private life—has left me feeling alternately awkward and like a fraud. Either way, I don’t know what I’m doing. And the people around this table are the kind of people I’ve always longed to do life with, the kind my parents are friends with.

I keep waiting to be relegated to the kids’ table.

Which might be why it feels better to have one of the daughters firmly planted in my lap at all times. The girls are wildly affectionate, smothering me with a constant stream of hugs, and their attention is more welcome than they know. Even it feels a bit conspicuous, though, like more than I deserve. Can I really be the object of their love? After so little time?

The part of me that still forgets the good news of Jesus says, “Surely not.”

And yet, when I walked in tonight, they did come running to me with treasures of their friendship: paintings of hearts, rainbows, presents, and party hats, proudly emblazoned with my name in bold, colorful letters. The littlest one also told me she thinks of me every day.

They are children, eager to trust and untrained in the ways of the world. They would love anyone who walked in the doors. But perhaps that’s the point. Perhaps they are meant to be vivid reminders of God’s love for me, a love that scandalously runs toward me when I have played the prodigal, and invites me to the party when my pride gets in the way.

Perhaps.

In any case, I take refuge in them, towing the line somewhere between adult and child, listening in on the conversations of both the young and the older. The kids’ mom and the family friend are discussing book recommendations and dog training. I find myself wishing for a puppy just so I can be like them.

“Alright, kids,” says the husband eventually. “Go change from your pajamas into your pajamas.”

I grin. Having been homeschooled myself, as they are, I understand exactly where they are coming from.

“This is our life,” the mother says with a weary smile.

I am thrilled to be invited into it.

Actually—I invited myself tonight, which may be contributing to the imposter syndrome. It wasn’t as if any of them had objections. When I asked, there was something about the universal Church in my head, a vision of being enfolded into a family solely on the basis of our shared belonging to Christ.

But that was Sunday, before the glow of communion wore off, and it’s Friday now. The mundane rhythms of life have taken over again and maybe I shouldn’t have been so bold.

Gradually, with much dragging of the feet, the children head off to bed. The puppy, too, is beckoned inside, and the parents follow to tuck their brood in for the night.

I am left in the dark with the family friend. Insecurity nips.

“Have you made connections?” she asks, knowing I moved to this area less than two months ago, and joined our church at the same time.

“Mmm…” I hesitate. For weeks, I’ve longed to confide the extent of my loneliness, to have someone simply sit in this place with me, but what stranger wants to be subjected to that? Still, the possibility of sharing it lies like a weight on my chest every time I’m around another follower of Jesus, pricking the back of my eyes with unshed tears. Silently, I beg to be seen, desired, pursued—but I’m afraid ask out loud. “I’ve never gone this long without anyone who knows me,” I say, haltingly. “And no one…”

“Has time?” In the porch light, I can see her looking at me, her eyes soft. Before I can even begin to comprehend her thoughts, she says, “I have time.”

Words fail. I want to break down weeping. I don’t even meet her eyes as I thank her, so shy is my ability to receive. I am embarrassed by how greedy I am for what she has just offered, and disbelieving that she could ever mean it fully, truly.

But He runs to me, with gifts and a loving embrace. Even tonight He has touched me tangibly in the arms of His little ones. And He lives in her.

So maybe I can believe that this stranger—this sister—really does want to know me, to make time for me. Maybe the good news has enlarged her enough for such things.

The mother comes back to join us and we chat another hour under the stars. My heart swells, eager to believe that this goodness is freely given from His heart, not to be taken away just as I cup my unworthy hands.

Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.* And He sets the lonely in families.**

As I drive away, sent out amid promises that I am always welcome to return, my spirit is bolstered to consider: Maybe it’s not too soon to be loved. Perhaps the gospel the children preached through their boisterous love is exactly what is extended to me in Christ and precisely what I will find in His Church.

Maybe this is home, after all.

At least, on this night, I’m emboldened to take the chance and find out.

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*James‬ ‭1:17‬ ‭NIV‬‬

**Psalm 68:6 NIV