Sitting by the fence.

Kids. I believe God does so much work in my heart through them. They are work and worth it, and God uses them daily to sanctify me.  

This time it’s Evie.

Our next door neighbor’s youngest son is autistic. I don’t know the details or severity of his diagnosis, but he doesn’t interact much and rarely speaks to anyone. He plays by himself. At brand-new-four, Evie doesn’t know the word autistic or care, and she has made it her life's mission to befriend this 11-year-old. She feeds him pizza and juice boxes and dessert. She calls him by name and says hello to him every time she sees him, though he has responded only a few times with a nod. She invites him to play, and even when he doesn’t answer, she simply sits by the fence and tells him stories or plays there offering her companionship. No one has asked her to do this and she gets little reciprocation in this friendship.

And it doesn’t matter to her at all. She’s tenaciously and genuinely kind.

At first, I’m just proud of her and marvel at her empathy, her kindness, and her capacity for mercy.

And then I remember that God pursues us the same way. We don’t always respond or notice. We don’t always reciprocate. And the creator of the universe, all powerful and worth our unending praise, still sits by the fence with us (or He knocks at the door if you like that metaphor better). Christ spent time with and ministered to the least, the outcasts, and we are called to do the same.

How often do I acknowledge and appreciate His presence? How many times am I like Evie, like Christ, in the way I respond and treat others? How many times do I do things without expecting or hoping for recognition or appreciation? How many times do I look for ways to bless those others skip over? 

It’s a humbling lesson, but I’m grateful for it.