Dear God,
Bathe me like your child who doesn’t know she’s dirty and hates baths.
Keep me sitting upright in the tub because I, like an infant, have yet to develop the muscles to keep myself from falling over. Keep me upright in this sea that cleanses but could also drown.
And please do all the washing. I can’t see myself properly, nor can I tell what’s dirty. And when I get soap in my eyes, it stings. I scramble to get out before the washing is done. Keep me, God. Keep me until your work is complete.
Then, when my eyes are clean and I’ve decided baths are not so bad after all, do you think I might play before you start scrubbing again? May I splash joyfully? May I wonder at the magical river coming from the faucet, and pretend I’m at sea, pretend I’m catching a boat-load of fish? May I play at feeding five thousand before my time is up?
Then, when I’m weary, would you wrap me in towels, pat me dry, and put me in pure-white pajamas? Won’t you tuck me in bed in your house, safe from harm and clean from my daily doings? Then I will drift to sleep as you sing over me, “My dear child in whom I take delight, I am well pleased with you.”
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Great analogies!