My first instinct is that I tend to see the glass half empty most of the time. As a result, I can whip myself into a state of despair about a variety of topics: the American president with his snickering little laugh, healthcare, Darfur, poverty, hunger, the general state of most Christians, the reputation/stereotype that I carry as an evangelical (What? You mean I’m not a disciple of Jerry Falwell? Shocking!), church planting (we must be mad), the war in Iraq, Canadian politics, terrorism, babies without parents in the foster system, babies with parents around the world, Paris Hilton (*sigh*) and so on. After a good bout of watching BBC News, I can safely pace the floor, praying for the state of humanity, punctuated with the word “Marantha, Lord Jesus!” (which loosely translates as “Come, Lord Jesus, and save us from this mess!”
The world is full of fear, hatred, war.

But I realised this summer that there is a lot of love in the world. And I realised it at swimming lessons.
You see, I took Anne to Starfish swimming lessons at the rec centre this summer. We put on our little (okay, so mine isn’t so little) bathing suits and showed up for a 30 minute lesson with Natasha. (Sidenote: Who decided to start putting wee babies into bikinis with little triangles for the top? Hello! Oversexualisation of babies, anyone? ARGH!)

While there, I was filled with hope. If you ever doubt love, go to a babies swimming class (just don’t be a single male with a baseball cap and a video camera…you’ll freak us all out). I looked across the pool one day between “The Wheels on the Bus” and “Let’s Make Bubbles!” and almost wept. So many different women and men and so many little babies and so much love. I felt like the pool would overflow with the love.
There was the obese woman who bravely donned her swimsuit to paddle with her chubby baby. There was the woman in the string bikini with her daughter in a string bikini. There was the biker-looking gentleman with his baby. There was the young teenager with her brand new girl. There was the tired looking mother with her cross eyed baby girl. There was the power-bitch looking woman with her curly haired boy. The dads who courageously jumped in the pool with a bunch of women to sing and splash. And on it went.

We sang songs like “The Grand Old Duke of York”. We went around in circles. We led the babies through the pool, chirping “Kick Kick Kick Kick”. I looked around at all of these people with their babies and saw raw, unabashed love in their eyes. They loved their kids. They kissed the tops of their heads when no one was looking. They kissed their wee faces through the chlorine. They paddled their feet and screamed with laughter when the babies splashed back. They bounced and giggled so that their babies would bounce and giggle.
I often labour under the (probably false) notion that no one has ever loved their child like I love Anne. No one else has ever had their heart completely broken open by 9 pounds of humanity. No one has ever kissed every inch of their babies milky skin, weepy with love. (I also labour under this assumption with my marriage: no one has ever loved like we love each other…)

I realised that day that everyone feels that way.

If you ever wonder if you are loved, look at your Mum. Look at your Dad. Most of the time (unfortunately not all of the time), they are split open wide with love for you, refracting everything about you.
It filled me with hope and joy. It made me feel a kinship with every other parent from Abbotsford Rec Centre to Darfur and beyond.

Such love. Such hope. Such joy. Such faith. There are these moments of saving grace and saving love all around the world, every day. What a privilege that God has allowed us to be parents, to experience the ache of his heart for his children. I understood the heart of God so much more after giving birth to Anne. He is a Father and a Mother. Everything else I think I know about God now passes through that filter. Just as I love Anne, he loves me.

The only drawback is that I had to wear a bathing suit for this revelation.