For the five year old still asking.

You’ve tried to fill it in. That space inside you. You’ve tried. We all have. And every once in a while, when you aren’t looking, something comes close. Close enough to stop you. Close enough to make you wonder.

That’s when it starts.

It lands not like you’re learning something new. More like a door you always knew was there but never opened. And when you finally walk through?

That’s when you come home.

Little kids, like five years old and up, they get it. Jesus said let these little ones come to me. Because they don’t need a philosophy or a religion. They don’t need to overthink or process how they feel. They just feel it. Understanding for a child, emotional understanding, is like breathing. Fred Rogers taught GenXers that. Feel your feelings. Even when it’s scary.

Pretzel June, our golden doodle, knows. She just loves you. No audition. No explanation. She’s there, her head in your lap seconds before you even realize you needed her. Just warmth. Presence. And you smile because she gets it, an acknowledgement words can’t quite reach. That space inside you? She finds it every time, stays, settling in right where she belongs.

Just here I am.

Growing up, our world gets louder. Noisier. Everything from school to work. Bills. Kids. Responsibilities stacked up like wooden Jenga blocks, one wrong move and it all comes down. The thing is, these are all good things. Our careers. The people we care about. The people we love. It’s a good life. A full one.

And somewhere in all that fullness, we just get busy.

We think more than we feel. We read books about the missing piece, leaning on our own opinions. Podcasts and YouTube clips reinforce what we already think. And then we’re off to work, trusting our thinking instead of remembering the feeling. The one that started all of this. The one whispering that something is still there, waiting.

It’s still missing. And that five year old kid inside you? The one who jumped up in your lap without asking permission, who giggled at the shadow on the wall, who asked a million questions then followed every single one with a barrage of whys? That kiddo is still there. Still asking.

Why?

That why is the beginning of something. Someone, actually.

That question is the door. Jesus is on the other side. He always was. He never left.

Jesus didn’t say come to me like scholars. He said come like children. Not uninformed. Not naive. Just open. Just willing to let him fill in the missing piece. To finally hear him say something belongs here.

It’s me.

And the beautiful part? He’s been knocking softly the whole time. Before we found the right words. Before we figured out the right theology. Before we cleaned ourselves up enough to feel worthy. He was already leaning toward us, the way a parent leans toward a child who is just learning to walk.

Or Pretzel June, already in your lap.

That’s the whole invitation. Not a doctrine. Not a denomination. Just arms open. Just come.

And when we slow down long enough to let that happen, even for a minute, even just standing in the kitchen on a Tuesday, coffee going cold on the counter, it’s the same a-ha it always was.

It was waiting for us the whole time.

We didn’t lose it. We just forgot.

And His grace is what shows up, when we remember.

Jesus.