“I don’t need your help!” I snapped, as I swatted his grubby little fist away from the dough.
The boy wilted at my rebuke. “But Mommy, I love to help you.”
“I know, but your hands are dirty and I can do it myself,” I muttered.
I had five kids under 6 in my care and was trying to whip up scones for lunch before the high-pitched hunger wails set in. My three-year old, seeing the bowl, had scraped a giant chair all the way across the floor and posted himself at my side, ready to be my sous chef. Now he stood there: swatted at, snapped at, and snubbed. He was crestfallen.
“I don’t need you either,” I heard the still, small voice say. “Your hands are often dirty. You mess up and make mistakes. And I could do it myself. But I don’t.”
Words from Corinthians welled up from within: For we are co-workers in God’s service. Co-workers. Co-workers of the Great One who could create the stars just by speaking. Of the One whom angels worship. Of the One who holds every molecule in the universe together. Of the inventor of harmonies, peaches, mathematics, asteroids, and neural pathways. And yet He chooses to accomplish His purposes on earth through us.
He could have willed people to follow him. And yet He chose to have salvation come by hearing a message spoken by foolish and fallible lips. We corrupt the message, betray the message, miscommunicate the message. And yet, He has chosen to use us as messengers.
He could heal with a concoction of spit-filled mud, and yet He chooses to have us apply band-aids and give hugs, learn physical therapy, walk the long-road of chemotherapy.
Me? His helper? How could He possibly use bumbling, fumbling, grumbling me to accomplish anything? But again Corinthians whispered: Not that we are competent in ourselves, but our competence comes from God.
I am my Daddy’s little helper. I am His kid, pulling up her chair as He cooks up His divine, fantastic plan, and He invites me to stick my grubby paws in His dough. To learn alongside Him. To share in the creation of what He’s baking in history.
Gentled by my Father’s guiding hand, I turned to the little one at my side. I let my son knead the dough – he over worked it. I let him roll it out – it was uneven. I showed him how to paint the egg on the top – he painted more baking sheet than scone. But they were delicious, and we did it together.
He’s my little helper, and I am His.