Childlike Communication

The first time I heard my children speak their first words was one of the happiest moments of my life. They didn’t say “Dad” or “Mom.” It was some little sound, some attempt at a word, and yet my heart rejoiced as I tried to interpret what I believed they were trying to say. It was imperfect communication, but to me it was beautiful.

I think about that moment often because it reminds me just how difficult communication really is. We can have something so clear in our minds, something we desperately want another person to understand, and yet somehow, between the thought in our hearts and the words that come out of our mouths, something gets lost. What we intend to say is not always what the other person hears. And what they hear is not always what we meant.

Interpretation can be a beautiful thing, but it can also become the source of misunderstanding, division, and even resentment.

My children are now ten and thirteen. They are both intelligent, articulate, and very much their own people. One day, I was sitting there listening to the two of them having a conversation, and for a moment I found myself feeling almost like I did when they first learned to speak.

They were clearly speaking English. The words were perfectly understandable. They were speaking clearly and confidently.

And I had absolutely no idea what they were talking about.

I remember my brother telling me a few months ago about the language of this new generation—how words that meant one thing to us can mean something entirely different to them. I used to think that as my children grew older, I would eventually be able to sit down with them and have these deep, insightful conversations where I could impart all the wisdom I had accumulated throughout my life.

Then I realized that sometimes I am sitting right next to them and I don’t even understand their language.

But perhaps there is something beautiful about that.

Children have a way of seeing the world that we adults often lose. They can argue, get upset, walk away from each other, and somehow, a short while later, they are talking again as if nothing happened. We adults can hold onto an offense for years. We remember every word, every expression, every perceived injustice. We build cases in our minds, defend our positions, protect our pride, and sometimes turn something small into something enormous.

And yet children often seem to possess something we spend our entire adult lives trying to recover: the ability to simply move forward.

I sometimes wonder how different this world would be if we learned to communicate a little more like children.

Would there be fewer wars?

Would nations be more willing to sit across a table and listen instead of trying to win?

Would we make decisions based on what is good for others rather than what gives us more power, wealth, or control?

Would hunger and poverty look different if we were less concerned with what belongs to us and more concerned with what belongs to our neighbor?

I wonder how long it would take a group of children to resolve some of the conflicts that adults have spent decades fighting over if we simply left our egos at the door and listened to one another.

Maybe the problem isn't always that the issues are too complicated.

Maybe we are.

And then I find myself looking at the Gospel.

Jesus says,

“Let the children come to me, and do not hinder them; for to such belongs the kingdom of heaven.” — Matthew 19:14

How beautiful those words are.

Jesus doesn't tell us to become childish. He calls us to become childlike.

There is a difference.

A child knows that he needs his father. A child reaches out his hand without first asking whether he has earned the right to hold it. A child can trust without having every answer. A child can receive a gift without wondering whether he deserves it.

And perhaps this is exactly how God wants us to approach Him.

Do we really think we can come before God carrying our titles and accomplishments as though they give us some special standing before Him?

Do we imagine that our résumé impresses the Creator of the universe?

Do we come before Him with a list of everything we have accomplished, everything we have sacrificed, everything we believe we deserve?

Or can we simply come as children?

“Father, I need You.”

Maybe that is the prayer.

Maybe that is where everything begins.

God is not asking us to impress Him. He is asking us to trust Him.

He is not asking us to prove our worth. He already knows our worth because He created us.

He is not asking us to control everything. He is asking us to surrender.

And when I look at my children, I begin to understand something about this childlike heart.

I am certainly no expert in child psychology or human behavior, but I have watched my children interact enough to notice something fascinating. They can sometimes resolve problems that we adults would turn into an entire courtroom proceeding.

They may argue. They may disagree. They may get angry.

But somehow, they find their way back to each other.

Why do we lose that ability as we grow older?

Do our problems really become that much more complicated?

Maybe some of them do.

But I wonder if we also complicate them ourselves.

Our pride gets involved.

Our need to be right gets involved.

Our desire to control gets involved.

Our fear of being vulnerable gets involved.

Our memories get involved.

And suddenly, something that could have been resolved with a simple “I'm sorry” becomes a battle over who was right.

Perhaps that is one of the great tragedies of growing up.

We learn so much about the world that we forget some of the things we knew when we were children.

We learn how to defend ourselves, but forget how to trust.

We learn how to compete, but forget how to share.

We learn how to protect our pride, but forget how to say, “I was wrong.”

We learn how to build walls, but forget how to reach for another person's hand.

And maybe this is why Jesus tells us to become like children.

Because the kingdom of heaven requires something our adult pride continually resists.

Humility.

A child doesn't need to be the greatest person in the room.

A child simply wants to know that he is loved.

And perhaps that is what God has been trying to teach me all along.

The world belongs to Him.

Everything we possess, everything we accomplish, every title we carry, every success we celebrate—all of it ultimately belongs to Him.

Yet somehow, we spend so much of our lives trying to become gods of our own little kingdoms.

We want control.

We want recognition.

We want to be right.

We want to be heard.

And sometimes we want God Himself to fit into the plans we have already made.

But the Gospel invites us to something completely different.

It invites us to become small enough to receive.

To become humble enough to listen.

To become trusting enough to surrender.

To become childlike enough to say, “Father, I don't understand everything, but I trust You.”

Perhaps that is why I continue to learn so much from my children.

When I look at the world through their eyes, the hardships don't necessarily disappear, but somehow they seem less overwhelming.

There is a simplicity there.

A willingness to begin again.

A capacity to forgive.

A desire to be loved.

And perhaps, underneath all of it, there is a lesson from heaven.

Maybe the older I become, the more I realize that growing in wisdom doesn't always mean learning more.

Sometimes it means remembering what I once knew.

That I am a child of God.

That I don't have to control everything.

That I don't have to understand everything.

That I don't have to prove myself.

I simply have to come to the Father.

With open hands.

With a sincere heart.

And with the humility of a child who knows that everything he truly needs comes from the One who loves him.

Maybe the greatest wisdom we can gain in this life is learning how to become children again.

God bless you always.