I always forget how busy Halloween is. A man at our school’s parade told me that his girls deliberate over carefully scrutinized costume catalogs several months prior, and have their costumes lined up in a closet at the beginning of October. That sounds so serene, compared to our tradition.
We wait until a day before the parade, and try to be as unique as possible as we choose what we want to ‘be’. Then, after the kids are in bed, I go out among the littered costume section of several Target stores and sift through the disarray in attempts to assemble the various costume components. I’m a frantic, sweaty mess by the time I return to my slumbering family.
Then the kids wake up the next day and say things like, “Did you spray paint my mask?” “Did you find me a striped hat?” “Where is my cape?” “Did you get the treats for my party?”
I would expect nothing less. It’s Halloween tradition! But far less expected were the words of my son at his sixth grade party. I had just given the kids instructions for their pizza and treats, and was about to dismiss rows, when Cole stood up with a big ‘ol grin on his face and said to his classmates, “So let’s give a hand to my Mom!”
It’s always nice to be appreciated. But there was something about having my own son speak his appreciation publicly that brought a lump to my throat and pride to my heart.
Does God feel this way, when I–his own daughter–publicly praise him, and beckon others to join me? Of course, he doesn’t become a frantic, sweaty mess as he gathers the things that I need while I sleep. But my unsolicited praise draws attention to his beautiful name, and to my relationship with him.