When I say a few, I mean over a decade. I was probably around four or five years old. I think? We'll go with that. Young enough to get pretty excited over the new gymnast Barbie I had just unwrapped. This thing was the bees knees. She bent at all of the joints, and not just a little rubber flexibility, I mean she ACTUALLY HAD JOINTS! It was kind of a big deal. I immediately opened the package and began to play with her, leaving the rest of my presents an abandoned mess on the floor. The one thing I didn't like about this Barbie was her outfit. She wore a wrist-to-ankle leotard exploding with U.S. pride. It was essentially an elastic flag stretched around her body. Well, I really wanted my new Barbie to try out some of the pretty dresses I had, so I tried to get her current outfit off. This was a bad decision. As I gripped her head and tried to peel off the leotard, something else gave way first: her head. Here I was with a brand new, headless Barbie gymnast. My face flushed and I started to shake as I ran to my dad.
"Daddy, daddy! I broke her! Can you fix it? Can you put her head back?" I was utterly distraught as I carefully placed the broken doll in his hands, tears welling up in my eyes.
"Here, let me see it." He took the doll and popped the head back into place. Everything was good, right? No. Wrong. I don't know if you have ever popped the head off of a Barbie before, but when you try to put it back on, it doesn't attach the same way it came off. You just jam it back onto the neck. It stays on, but the head, in effect, swallows up the entire neck, leaving you with a neckless Barbie. This, in my world at the time, was complete tragedy. My new doll would never be the same! Oh, the horror!
"But now her neck's gone, daddy!"
"I'm sorry, hun, but we can't just get you a new one, you just got this! You can still play with her just the same." He gave me a sad smile and picked me up onto his lap, offering consolation to his little girl.
I was in adoration today recalling this incident when an image flashed into my mind. This time, it wasn't a memory. It was me, running to my Father. Not the dad I was blessed with here on Earth, but the Father I was created by and created for. My heavenly Father. I was running to him, sad and upset, but hopeful. I could hear myself in a childlike voice cry out to him, "Daddy, Daddy! I'm broken," I look desperately at the Father before me, "Can you fix me?"And unlike with the Barbie, He just smiles at me and says, "Come."
Tears came to my eyes as this image played through my mind. Isn't this the truth of God's love for us? We are broken. And God doesn't want to just give us a new heart and say, "Oh, here you go. Now be careful with this one. I'll give it to you this time, but next time, you're on your own." (I got that a lot from my own parents here on Earth...) No, He just says, "Come to me and let me fix you."
"You will seek me and will find me when yo seek me with all your heart."