Jesus loves me.

I need to know this.

Like, not some kind of empty platitude I say or others say to me.

I need to KNOW this.

Not like something I sing on a Sunday morning after watching my parents rush around, getting us ready for church. Looking like a perfect child, putting on the perfect show in my pretty handmade dress and patent-leather buckle shoes…

…And so I sing it—“Jesus Loves Me”

But what does that really mean?

Like, if I’m pretty enough, and quiet enough, and mature enough…

Jesus loves me.

And like, if I’m not pretty or quiet or mature–enough–

So that he can love me, he sends trials to “point me to him” so that I can once again be the perfect little girl in the church pew with bows in her hair, bows on her dress, and bows on her perfectly cuffed white socks?

NOT TRUE.

Jesus loves me.

Like, not because of anything I am, or anything I say, or anything I do.

And not because of anything I’m not, or anything I don’t say or do.

Jesus loves me.

Because that is who God is.

God is love.

But I need to KNOW this.

I need to KNOW it.

Know it the way I know how the stars look on a clear country night.

And know it the way I know how it feels to drive down an empty highway, windows rolled down, singing loud with the radio.

I need to know that Jesus loves me.

But how?

“‘The Lord is my portion,’ says my soul, ‘Therefore I will hope in him.” The Lord is good to those who wait for him, to the soul who seeks him.”