Moved with Compassion

It is only as our daughter, Marie, lifts her18-month-old son, Ian, from the high chair at Sweet Tomatoes that she understands his lack of enthusiasm for his lunch. Watery diarrhea has run under his diaper and soaked his clothes. The spare outfit Marie usually carries was used the day before.

We make a quick exit to Marie's van, and buckle Ian and 4-year-old Ainsley in their car seats. It is early February and cold. Ian wails pathetically behind me. I turn to see the tears pool at his lower eyelids and spill down his cheeks. To drive home just seems too far away.

"Let's stop somewhere so I can buy him something to wear," I suggest. Marie heads for the Target a few blocks away.

Once inside, she ushers Ainsley (who is about to throw up) to the restroom, while I make a beeline toward the toddler clothing. Clean, warm and comfy, I think as I scan the racks of boy clothes. I come up with a pair of cotton-lined, pull-on pants and a soft butter yellow and cream pullover. After getting Marie's OK, I pay for the clothes and offer to take Ian to the women's restroom to clean him up.

He is truly a mess. I have him stand on the changing table and hang onto me as I carefully remove his shoes and pants. He looks into my eyes with an expression that says, You're not my mom, but since you're taking care of me, I guess it's OK. I notice the sleeve of my coat is wet where he has leaned against me. Now I will smell like diarrhea, but it's OK. Once his filthy pants are removed, I have him lie down and remove his diaper.

It is disgusting, but I do not feel disgusted. Pure pity and tenderness swell within me. The stench on him does not diminish my love for him. If anything, his helplessness makes me love him even more. In this moment there is nothing I would rather be doing than changing my precious grandson. My deepest desire is to provide for his number one need - to be clean and clothed.      

As I wipe the diarrhea from Ian's legs, I catch a clear glimpse of God's heart toward me. I know I am often covered in the excrement of sin. There is no doubt my sin is offensive and stinks in His nostrils. But He sees my terrible predicament and is moved by loving compassion to rescue me. I am helpless. I have neither the means nor the ability to become clean on my own. He is not repulsed, reluctant or resentful that I need Him.

I am His and He loves me. He is glad to wash me again, not with baby wipes, but with blood. He reminds me that I am no longer naked, but clothed in the perfect righteousness of Christ.

It is finished. I pick Ian up and carry him back to his mom.