I like to think that God has dimples.
I don’t think I’m projecting… at least not in the way that I used to when I pictured our Jewish Savior as an American with long brown hair and hazel eyes. I mean, yes, I have dimples, but that’s not why I think God has them. I think God’s smile is broad, warm and engaging. I think his Son, Jesus, was the kind of man who won you over with just a look and a smile—not good looks and perfect teeth—He wasn’t really the GQ type, but there was something about him: warm divinity, disarming grace and authentic love—and I like to imagine that those traits were highlighted in his broad, dimpled grin.
Why else would men drop their nets and follow him?
Why else would broken women feel safe in his presence?
There was something beautiful about the look in his eyes and the smile on his face.
Like a grandfather who chuckles as his first grandchild toddles toward him… Like a man in love watching his bride walk up the aisle… Like a new mom, smile on her lips and tears in her eyes, gazing at her precious newborn…
I confess that I forget about God’s dimples sometimes. I forget to sink my feet into his love and imagine his smile. I forget that He loves me, gave everything for me and thinks of me with tenderness.
Life gets hard, loss creeps in and it gets easy to think about all the darkness that surrounds me. Even simple things, like cleaning up dog poo or balancing my checkbook or attempting (in vain) not to eat the chocolate hidden in the upper left hand corner of my kitchen cabinet… can distract me from his smile.
So I begin this blog.
A tribute to my loving Savior, my dimpled God. In these posts, Ill talk of things that are lovely, ordinary, pure, noble, hilarious, goofy and fun. I’ll dive in to stuff we all deal with, loving our kids to good things, losing a few pounds, interacting with family, dogs, cats and persistent telemarketers.
You get the idea.
And maybe, if God is being especially kind, I’ll dance into the profound.
But certainly don’t expect that too often.
One final thing. I’m doing this for selfish reasons. I need to sit in God’s goodness. I need to sense his love. I need to feel his smile. I need it like I need my next breath, for without it I’m afraid I’ll shrivel up into a bitter, old, frumpy ne’er do well.
There you have it. If you’re up for reading words like “frumpy” and “ne’er do well,” and if you don’t mind me writing a whole blog on faith stuff or single-cup coffee makers, sign up and let me know you’re here.
Because even though this is for me, I wouldn’t mind the company.