I call him Bud. He calls me Chayda. We get along for the most part, and it’s a good thing we do because we spend a lot of time together. We’re friends, but we’re not alike. He’s a boy; I’m a girl. He’s short; I’m tall. He’s blond; I’m brunette. His eyes are blue; mine are green. He’s a baby; I’m supposed to be grown up.

He’s lived twenty three months. I’ve lived twenty three years. There is so much I could teach him, so many things he needs to learn. But while I am showing him new things and unveiling the world to him, he is simply reminding me of things I knew once but have forgotten.

“Hold hands,” he says, and puts his chubby fist in mine. And suddenly instead of me simply following him around the yard, we are walking together, and sometimes I am leading him, but usually he is leading me.

I come to his house to take care of him, to play with him, to teach him. But while I am teaching him, he is also teaching me. And it is the differences between us that teach me the most. . .

A difference in identity . . . He knows without question who he is. He knows where he belongs and who he belongs to. And he is secure in that knowledge. He has never had reason to doubt. As a child of God, neither have I, but I find myself doubting far too often, caring too much about what other people see and think. He doesn’t care what other people think; all he cares about is that his parents love him. He finds his security in that love. And I can find that security in my Father’s love if I choose to.

A difference in interaction . . . He knows only what he sees. Just as he doesn’t question who he is, neither does he question who other people are. To him, the world and the people in it are visible and tangible. He doesn’t wonder what my motives are for doing this or that. He accepts kindness as kindness and a smile as simply a smile. Meanwhile, I am watching those around me, questioning their sincerity, their motives, their ability. If I could see other people like he does, perhaps I would be more accepting.

A difference in forgiveness . . . For him, forgiveness comes easily. It comes in the form of hugs and kisses, of sweet little smiles. He does not remember the too-harsh words I spoke to him yesterday when I was tired. He doesn’t hold a grudge because I took too long getting him his lunch. The slate is wiped clean many times a day. What if I could somehow relearn that skill? What if we all could? Yes, offenses cut deeper and mar more the older we get, but at the same time, to him the world is an ugly place when his lunch is late, yet he has no problem forgiving me. And no offense is greater than the God Who commanded us to forgive it.

A difference in worldview . . . We both have our own ideas of how the world should work (although I like to think mine are a little more advanced). He chases the dog around with a rock in the dog food bowl and says, “Zeusy eat rock.” But when Zeus doesn’t want to eat the rock, his statement immediately changes. “Zeusy no eat rock.” He learns quickly, and there is no doubt in his mind. He doesn’t try to analyze why things are the way they are. He accepts them and adapts his own way of thinking to match them. But how often do I have an idea of how something should be and can’t accept the way it really is because I won’t change how I think about it? God’s ways are truly higher than our ways, but the older we get, the more we need a reason and an explanation for them. We keep saying, “Zeusy eat rock,” when in reality there is no way that “Zeusy” will eat the rock.

A difference in limits . . . We both have limits. The difference is that he knows what his are. When he’s hungry, he asks for a snack. When he’s thirsty, he asks for a drink. When he needs his diaper changed, he lets me know. Sometimes he even asks for a nap (and that is admitting complete defeat). There is no shame in knowing our limits, but I at least tend to try to push past them, to not acknowledge them until I must. But when he comes to me with his binky in his mouth and his blanket in tow and asks for a nap, it challenges me to do the same with my Father. When life is more than I can handle, all I have to do is go to my Father and ask for rest. And with the same smile and reassuring “I love you” that I give Emmitt when I lay him down, so my Father will give me that rest. And while I won’t be saying “love you” back through a binky like Emmitt does, it will give God the same amount of joy to see me resting in Him.

A difference in consequences . . . The consequences for his wrongdoing affect only him and are quickly forgotten. Mine rarely affect only myself and are longer lasting. The older we get, the more people our actions affect. It would seem then that doing right should get easier as we get older. After all, the consequences of doing wrong get worse. But usually, it’s the other way around. Just yesterday, he did something wrong and was punished for it. Later he came back, looked at the temptation, and said very solemnly to himself, “Chayda say no.” What had been a temptation no longer was because he knew the consequences. If I could look at life the way he does, if I could trust in “God said no” the way he trusted in “Chayda say no,” there would be more freedom, more joy, and fewer consequences. He didn’t ask me why I said no. He just trusted me, and he remembered the consequences. Victory would come more often if I could trust God like that.

The differences between us lessen as he gets older, but there are also lessons behind our likenesses. . .

A likeness in dependence . . . He likes to do more things for himself than he used to, just like I like to do things for myself. Sometimes though, he realizes he needs help. “I will do it” becomes “Chayda do it.” And after I’ve done it for him, he doesn’t get any less enjoyment out of the end result. He doesn’t resent my help or even remember it. So next time I’ve tried and tried to no avail, perhaps I will remember his sweet little “Chayda do it” and turn to my God in the same way. . . God, You do it. He’s just waiting for me to ask, same as I wait for that little voice to ask me.

A likeness in security . . . He is very independent, but he knows where safety is, and when he is tired or uncertain, he runs to me, lifts up his arms, and says, “Up please.” Or he will point to the rocking chair, say, “Chayda sit down,” crawl up beside me, and ask me to sing “Jesus I Know.” (“Jesus Loves Me”) And he is perfectly content there with me. He has what he needs and what he wants, and for that moment in time it is the same thing. Nothing worries him or angers him or saddens him. And all he is doing is sitting with me, someone who will fail him and disappoint him and let him down. How much happier and more at peace should I be when I am resting in the presence of the One Who will never fail me. . .

A likeness in darkness . . . He has a naughty streak that will mature into the kind of wicked heart that only God can cleanse, but for now what he knows of darkness is evidenced in disobedience and selfishness. . . crawling through holes in the fence, chasing the dog till it’s half mad with fright, screaming when things aren’t the way he wants them. He doesn’t know what malice or envy or hatred are. And it makes me wonder when I learned them. . .

A likeness in joy . . . His are sunshiny days filled with swing rides and bubbles and smiles upon smiles. He is easily entertained and finds joy in the small things. There is wonder in burying a plastic turtle in the sandbox, in watering the sidewalk, in picking half-ripe blueberries from a bush just his size. He doesn’t go searching for excitement. He doesn’t have to. To him, the world is full of it. And perhaps it would be to me as well if I approached it with a heart of innocence that wasn’t afraid to wonder.

1 Corinthians 13:11. “When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.”

Age brings understanding and wisdom and accountability. We’re not meant to remain children. But must we lose the beauty of childhood to the cynicism of adulthood? Could we not somehow retain the innocence with the understanding?

We grow more alike every day as he gets older, but there are already ways in which we are not different. We both love books, though he revels in Dr. Seuss while I find more enjoyment and inspiration in a good classic. We both love watermelon, though I don’t like mine dripping down my chin like he does. We both love being outside, though he howls when he can’t be and I just accept it. We even both have double initials that oddly enough mimic the sounds we make. His E.E. comes from his mouth far too often in the form of a scream or a wail when he doesn’t get his way. My M.M. comes perhaps just as often as a poor replacement for conversation when I can’t think of something to say or can’t be bothered to say it.

It’s not our likenesses or our differences that matter; it’s what we learn from them. We share a race and a world and a God, the One Who made us and loves us and set up our lives in such a way that we can learn from each other.

Matthew 18:4. “Whosoever therefore shall humble himself as this little child, the same is greatest in the kingdom of heaven.”