SOMETHING CLICKED AND I DIDN’T DO IT

Passing on the faith to the next generation on hug, one click at a time.

The seat belt finally clicks.

"Thank you, Jesus!" I slump over my oldest granddaughter's booster seat in relief in a slightly dramatic but sincere response to a constant struggle of getting it right.

"Why did you say, 'Thank You, Jesus?'" She asks. "I'm the one who did it."

Having advanced grandchildren keeps me on my theological toes. I know questions shouldn't scare me, but they do.

"Well, Jesus made your hands and gave you skills and smarts to figure out that problem," I say, "He helps us and tells us what to do."

"Have you ever heard Him talk?"

At this point, I begin to sweat and pray under my breath profusely.

Isn't this my passion? Hasn't this been my prayer? How can I go into all the world and preach the Gospel if I can't preach it to a 7-year-old?

It's a big moment. Eternity hangs in the balance, but all I can say is, "Ummmmmm."

I'm not qualified for this job.

Suddenly, I'm transported back to Sunday School. I'm one of the dumbfounded disciples still standing there when Jesus ascends into Heaven, and an angel has to give them a nudge.

God chooses broken believers to carry His holy message. What in the world was He thinking?

Could it be that He planned it this way so we know we were not the ones who did it?

The job of Savior has already been taken. “But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes on you, and you will be my witnesses. “(Acts 1:8)

Jesus saves; we share what we've seen and heard and felt.

"Yes, I've heard God speak," I admit, "but not like you're hearing me right now. He talks to us through the Bible and the wind and the trees. When you hear God speak, it's a voice deep in your heart."

Is that right? I wonder. Is that enough? Am I making any sense at all?

I'm no theologian. I'm just a girl who loves Jesus, and an old girl at that, one who still gets tongue-tied at the mystery of God, but knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that He loves us most of all.

The silence from the back seat is deafening. Suddenly, the verdict is delivered.

"I want to hear God's voice," my precious baby says. "Jesus, please talk to me!"

Happy tears spring to my eyes as I whisper, "Thank You, Lord."

Something clicked, and I didn't do it.