While we were waiting for supper to come out of the oven, Pascal was just about done. He was slumped over on the floor, whining. I dropped down onto the kitchen couch and asked him to bring me a book, so I could read him a story.
"No story," he said, climbing onto me with his blankie in hand, "just you."
And he pressed his heart against mine and laid his cheek on my shoulder and we just sat there, quiet.
It was enough.
I think Jesus said the same thing.
He knew us. Made us. But He didn't leave it at that. He didn't just know us from the story. He came to us.
And He invites us to do the same to Him.
I mean - I make a big deal of the Christmas story. It's my favourite story. But it's my favourite because it's not simply something I read about. And if He had come to us any other way, that would have been perfect too. Because the story I love isn't a story ...
It's someone I know. Someone I love. Someone who loves me back.
Just Jesus.
And it's so much more than enough.
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