Note: this is a repost from a very, very old blog of mine. I stumbled upon it yesterday while looking for something else. I’d completely forgotten about it, but after reading it again, felt that it’s worth reblogging.
It is a well-known fact that little girls love stories, and Eppie was no exception. Every night in that magic hour between dinnertime and bedtime, Eppie made her way to her father’s side, squared her chin with determination, grabbed ahold of his knees with her little-girl hands, and scrambled up into his lap to listen to his stories.
It was the same every evening, for as long as they both could remember. She loved sitting in his lap; he loved her head nestled in the crook of his arm. She loved the sound of his voice; he, her fascinated mind. She loved stories; he loved her love of stories.
“Daddy, tell me a story,” she would say. No other words could be spoken. It was as if she held the key to an entire kingdom full of treasure, and “tell me a story” was the spell needed to enter through the gate.
It was the same every evening.
Tonight was no different than any other night. Eppie made her sacred march across the well-worn living room carpet to her father’s side, climbed into his lap, and snuggled down with a quiet sigh. But before she made her usual request, she sat in silence for several minutes looking at her hands, and obviously deep in thought. Her father watched in fascination, wondering what was going through that beautifully inquisitive mind. Her brow furrowed, then relaxed as she finally raised her large blue eyes to match his equally large and wise blue eyes. She smiled as she stared up at him, ad he wondered at the question in her expression, but she spoke only those magic words:
“Daddy, tell me a story.”
What kind of story do you want to hear tonight?
“A good story.”
A good story? I thought all of my stories were good.
“No, no Daddy. I mean like at good story. You know.” She spread her hands emphatically to emphasis the importance of her words. “Like a love story.”
A good story like a love story. Hmmmm… well, well, well. This is a first. Just any old love story, eh?
Eppie’s eyes grew wide with exasperation at her father’s teasing. “Daddy!”
Okay, okay. What love story do you want to hear? A princess story, like Cinderella or Beauty & the Beast? Or a real-life story, like when Daddy & Mommy got married?
The furrow returned to Eppie’s brow as she again looked down at her hands and again raised her eyes to match her fathers’.
“No, Daddy. I want my love story.”
Her father looked at her tenderly for several minutes before he spoke again, his rich voice deepening and mellowing with emotion.
My darling, I cannot tell you a story that has yet to be written.
“Abba, tell me a story.”
It is a well-known fact that big girls, like little girls, also love stories. The big-girl Eppie is no exception. Almost every day a desire wells up inside of her to know, in a similar way that the child-Eppie wanted to know the story. Words are important, as are all the elements of a good story– joy and sorrow, love and pain, victory and defeat, loss and gain; the stark contrast between the hard times and good times make the best stories. And every night in that magic hour between saying goodnight and going to sleep, she makes her way to her Father’s side, focuses her mind with determination, and looks up into her His face.
Eppie loves her Father’s arms. She loves coming to Him with boldness, knowing that Christ intercedes for her. She loves resting her weary head in the crook of His arm and resting, as the cares of the day ease away. She loves the sound of His voice, and she delights in following after His beckoning call. She loves His stories– the ones that He weaves in her life every single day.
“Abba… dearest Father…” No other name can be spoken. To Eppie these sweet, simple, childlike words mean that she doesn’t feel the need to verbalize the wonder of His many attributes to gain His approval or sound like her relationship with Him is deeper than it already is. It is the key that unlocks the gate to the kingdom garden full of the riches of His grace in her life.
It’s the same every evening.
Tonight is no different than any other night:
“Abba, tell me a story.”
What kind of story, My child?
“A good story. A true story. A love story. You know the one…”
The same one you ask to hear every night?
“Yes! That one! Oh, it’s so good. Will You please tell it tonight?!??”
Darling, you know as well as I do that it’s too early for the part of the story that you want to hear.
“But why? You don’t have to finish writing it, do You?”
Oh, no. It was finished before the foundations of the world, since before time began.
“Then why can’t You tell it to me?”
Because I want to show you your love story, and let you live. You don’t want Me to spoil the ending for you, would you?
“No. But it’s such a good story!”
But waiting until the end is part of the story.
[sigh] “It’s just so hard to wait for it.”
Yes. Waiting is always hard. But if you know Me, and you do know Me, then you know the end well enough.
“And therefore the Lord earnestly waits, expecting, looking, and longing to be gracious to you; and therefore He lifts Himself up, that He may have mercy on you and show loving-kindness to you. For the Lord is a God of justice. Blessed (happy, fortunate, to be envied) are all those who earnestly wait for Him, who expect and look and long for Him- for HIs victory, His favor, His love, His peace, His joy, and His matchless, unbroken companionship.” — Isaiah 30:18, Amplified Bible