Pressing Buttons

On my right shoulder there is a peculiar and perfectly round bump of skin about the size of a pencil eraser tip. My oldest son has always referred to it as my "button." On occasion I have snapped back from a mom trance— you know, where your children are tugging your shirt and repeating a plea incessantly, and you have managed to successfully ignore all attempts to get your attention— to find Elias' finger on my shoulder, pushing down repeatedly. I'll ask him what he's doing, and he simply replies:

"Mommy, I'm pressing your button."

Oh, if he only knew how true.

I love the fleshy reminder of having my proverbial buttons pressed. My kids know how, and my husband, and some of my closest friends. They rather enjoy it sometimes, as do I when my finger is on their respective buttons. We press and watch, over and over sometimes, just to get a reaction, any reaction.

Sometimes I find myself sidling up to Jesus and trying to locate his shoulder button, hoping to snap him out of a trance and aim his attention at me once more.

Thing is, I'm pretty sure he has no buttons, nor has he ever turned his attention away from me, a thought that, alone, could be the content of a lengthy blog post. And I'm pretty sure that my attempts to press his buttons may actually make him smile. Maybe I'm being a brat, but at least I'm coming to him. He smiles and reminds me that he doesn't need a rest from me. I can't press his buttons and cause him to retreat. Absolutely nothing I do would make him say "I've had enough of you!"

So my kids press my shoulder button, and I snap back to reality with a smile on my face and a gratefulness in my heart as I'm reminded of grace upon grace, of a Father who tells me to keep it coming, keep trying to press His buttons. Sometimes I need the practice to remember how little mercy I have on my own and how limitless His is for me.