"Mom, do you want to see something cool I can do on the backyard swing?"

From the back door came the cold little voice, breathless with the fall air and the exertion of a newfound trick. I knew if I could see him his cheeks would be rosy, his hands would be grubby, and he would likely be holding a stick or a spade or a digging machine in the hand that wasn't still clasping the doorknob.

Just popping in from a lovely day outside to see if his mom wanted to come see him "do something cool on the backyard swing."

Fully expecting that I would.

Expecting my delight.

Unashamedly asking for it.

Knowing it would come, because he was my child, and I was his mother.

I didn't really want to go out into the cold. My house was warm, and I had things to do.

But I followed the call of my four-year-old, and I praised his new trick, and I listened to him excitedly talk about showing his older brother after school, and the whole time he was just beaming.

I didn't think of it then, but I thought of it later, as I tried to put my finger on just what it was about his call that seemed different. He wanted to show me his trick, yes, but it wasn't just because he wanted to show it off. It was because he expected me to want to see it.

He expected me to want to see it. He didn't want me to miss out on something that he thought would make me happy. And it didn't matter if deep down I didn't actually want to go outside.

I went, and I watched, and I delighted in him, just like he thought I would.

And I couldn't help thinking later that I could learn something from him. He went to his mother, expecting to be delighted in. How often do I go to my own heavenly Father expecting the same?

Expecting to be delighted in by the One Who made me and cares for me, just as I made and care for Sebastian.

Maybe what I have to offer isn't that great. Maybe it's just the equivalent of a four-year-old precariously swinging around on a swing, almost face-planting in the dirt, dragging his white hoodie sleeves across the ground. Maybe it's writing a blog post that doesn't feel very polished or very clear. Maybe it's using the gifts I've been given, whether it feels like I use them well or not.

Sebastian had no shame, no misgivings, and not a stitch of low self-confidence. He knew he would find praise and a smile even if he fell on his face while doing his trick.

It's easy to look at God and see Someone Who writes the rules. Someone Who metes out judgment. Someone Who obviously loves us because He sent His only begotten Son to die for us, but also Someone Whose love is sometimes hard to grasp because He isn't right here in physical form showing it to us.

Let's not forget that while He is all of those things and many, many more, He is also the God Who sings over us.

The God Who made us.

The God Who gave us everything we have and everything we are.

The God Who delights in us.

"The Lord thy God in the midst of thee is mighty; he will save, he will rejoice over thee with joy; he will rest in his love, he will joy over thee with singing." (Zephaniah 3:17)