Paintings of Jesus

      When I was little, I would kiss Jesus good night. My grandma and I would do the same thing each night I was spending the night at my grandparents' house. I'd sit up in bed with the blankets over my legs. Gram would sit on the edge of the bed, holding a painting of Jesus. This painting is the only image of Jesus I have--whenever I think of Him, I envision the painting Gram kept. It was only the head and shoulders of Jesus, but that's all I needed.
      Every night, we'd sit on the bed, looking at the painting. Then we'd start to sing. It was always "Jesus Loves Me"--complete with hand motions--then sometimes "Jesus Loves the Little Children." Gram and I would pray--hands folded, heads bowed, and eyes squeezed shut. Those were probably the most genuine prayers I ever prayed--from the heart of a child, innocent and eager to love Jesus Christ. After that, I would lean over and give Jesus a peck on the cheek and say "Good night, Jesus." I could almost see Him smile and say "Good night" back to me. Gram would set the picture on the desk next to the bed, tuck me in, and turn off the lights. No need for a night light because Jesus was right there, next to me, watching over me and protecting me.
      What happened to that child-like innocence? Why can't I bring myself to talk to Jesus now like I did back then? Why is it so uncomfortable for me just to whisper prayers in my heart to Him? It makes me feel so sad that I don't have the same eagerness to know Jesus, the willingness and earnestness to try to seek Him. Somewhere along the line, I lost my innocence. Somewhere along the line, something happened that made me be so ashamed of myself I couldn't bear to look at Jesus in the face, let alone talk to Him. Sometimes, I can't even look at my own reflection, to look at myself in the face. But I'm not the only one: It happens to all of us eventually.
      Something happens to everyone when they grow up: The world gets in the way. School, work, social problems, money problems, the list goes on... We become lost in the strife of the world. Our prayers become wish lists. Our prayers become shorter and shorter. Our prayers become later at night, when we're so tired, we fall asleep in the middle of them.
      I truly miss the child-like prayers, the singing, the knowledge Jesus was right there. Above all, I miss the good night kisses. It was probably the most humble, blameless heart speaking directly to Jesus. But now, I find it nearly impossible to connect with Him. I know He's reaching out to me--it's my fault I'm not hearing Him. I know I must remove my stubborness, my pride, in order to hear His voice as loudly as I did as a child. But it's much easier said than done. I feel guilt and shame for my past wrongdoings. I'm a harsher judge on myself than anyone else could ever be. I know with my head that I'm forgiven, but my heart has a harder time accepting that truth.
      I long for the day when I can hold the picture of Jesus again and kiss it good night just one more time. That will be the moment when I know I am secure in the place God wants me to be. In the arms of Jesus.