This evening I watched my husband give the kids a bath. It was a quick bath, the kind you give not because you really have time or especially want to, not because it’s “bath night”, but because, well, your kids stink. Because spring has sprung, they’ve been playing outside, and they smell like it.
It was late, past Sophie’s bedtime really, so Bobby washed them as quickly and thoroughly as he could. And while he washed, I watched.
What I saw mesmerized me. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from their shiny wet skin, their splash-inspired smiles, their saturated hair.
Surrounded by bubbles, laughing, playing, soaking, my children were so beautiful. As beautiful as I’ve ever seen them.
In the midst of something so routine, I was stunned by it. Awed. The bathroom was strewn with dirty clothes and towels, the laundry hamper overflowing, and yet in the middle of all that mess was such perfection.
My children. How could they come from me? I wondered.
And then I realized what I’ve known but had somehow forgotten. They didn’t come from me, they came to me, two gifts entrusted to me from a God who does all things intending glory.
Looking at them tonight in a sea of suds I saw glory more clearly than ever before.
