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J U LI E ’ S S TO RY - G LI M P S E S O F G O D I N E V E RY DA Y L I F E

Coochie PREACH IT, TEACH IT DEVOTIONAL

BABY SPEAK SCRIPTURE STUDY

LUKE 19:1-10

PRAYER FOCUS Dear Jesus, Thank you for the special ones you have placed in my life that have accepted, respected and loved me. Help me to treat others as I wish to be treated. In Jesus’ Name, Amen

“Coochie, coochie, coo! Woochie, woochie, num-num! How’s my little PoochieWoo today?” Could my day get any worse? I was happily watching the world go by, sucking on my binkie when this annoying grown-up goes nose-to-nose with me, invading my personal space. Her hot breath wafted toward my nostrils, reeking of rancid Folger’s coffee and Allure perfume. Who was this pruny person, and why was she in my face? My eyes grew big as saucers and then crossed as she brushed her whiskery chin on my forehead, her lips smeared in “rosy galore” lip balm. Then it happened. She planted a gooey red blob of lipstick on my head. Instead of looking like an adorable infant decked out in the new pink onesie my Mom had given me, I looked like Chief Redbottom on the warpath. Will this madness never end? To add insult to injury, the large visitor shook a rattle the size of my head right under my nose. I was deaf for a week. Here it comes, the worse affront of all, the Pillsbury dough boy tummy poke. And they wonder why babies “spit up” all the time! The only hope I had to be rid of this pest was to deliver a brown surprise in my diaper. Finally! She backed away, choking on the stench and called for Mommy. The indignity of a disgusting diaper change was a small price to pay to be left alone. I later learned that this well-meaning wrinkly lady was my Grandma. I shouldn’t have been so hard on her. She really came through at Christmastime. Granny wasn’t the only one who spoke “baby speak.” Most adults turn off their brains and mumble jibberish around little people. “Baby speak” is beneath those of us who are newbies to the planet. Teach us some real words like plums and chocolate. The only reason we coo instead of chatter is because grown-ups bombard us with verbal nonsense.

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“Toddler speak” is just as inane as “baby speak,” and a heck of a lot meaner. Parents gripe about the “terrible twos,” but the only reason we toddlers said “no” all of the time is because it’s what we heard. “No, no, no…don’t touch that” is followed by a stinging mommy-hand slap. How did I know I couldn’t touch the electric socket? Those holes in the wall had to lead somewhere. My otherwise gleeful exploration of the bathroom loo was met with a “Nuh uh!!!” The house was sweltering and I needed a quick dip in the small Jacuzzi. One flush and the cooling spray soothed my sore backside and sweaty feet. The surprise swat that came out of nowhere was worse than “toddler speak.” Every cat should be carried by its long, furry tail. That’s why God put it there. Couldn’t Mommy and Daddy have sat with me on the couch and chatted about boundaries? I hated “toddler speak.” When I turned four, my mother began addressing me in the third person. “Mommy wants you to stop slugging your sister.” “Because Mommy said so, that’s why.” What did she mean “Mommy said so?” Big woop. Couldn’t I say that? “Kid wants to stay up and watch Popeye ‘til midnight…because kid says so.” Take that! I heard a lot of two-word phrases in “kid speak.” “Wait here.” “Don’t cry.” “Not now.” “Hurry up.” “Stay here.” “Straighten up.” “Kid speak” is used by lazy parents. Surely my folks knew more verbage than that. A third-grader in the school spelling bee could do better. Stop with the mono-syllables, please. This wasn’t the stone age. “Teen speak” was entirely unintelligible, partly because my parents turned into blithering idiots when I turned thirteen. Suddenly, they simply couldn’t finish a sentence. “If you don’t…” “I’m going to…” “I’m warning you…” My parents were Christians. They never cursed, but they probably wanted to. My adolescent years were the only ones when my poor parents resorted to “domestic violence.” Mom made a menacing grunt and pelted my sneakers against my bedroom wall. She hurled piles of my dirty laundry toward the door. Mom didn’t lay a hand on me, but my clothes sure got a good whooping. I guess she didn’t like tromping through the debris of my filthy habitat. When I started dating, Daddy started door-slamming. Non-verbal communication was the only means of getting my attention when I behaved like a belligerent hellion. I responded in kind. I huffed. I sighed. I snorted. I rolled my eyes. The only humans who spoke my language were Paul McCartney and my boyfriend Bobby Forman. My best conversations with Bobby were when he had his tongue down my throat. (Okay, I backslid a little…) “Teen speak” between parents and their petulant offspring is nominal at best. I turned eighteen and my parents finally came to their senses. We began to use big words with each other and didn’t throw anything. We could have civil conversations about religion, sex and politics. I was astonished about how much my parents learned in such a short time. “Grown-up speak” included words like “thank you” and “what do you think?” We are still fluent in “grown-up speak” today, and my parents are my best friends. I first heard “grown-up speak” with my godfather. Bill Kemp was a very influential man in my young life. When I was only seven, Bill spoke to me as if I were twenty. My lanky, loving godfather always treated me as an equal, and I adored him for it. I couldn’t wait to arrive at the Kemp’s house on Sunday night after church. Elaine’s banana cream pie was delectable, but it didn’t hold a candle to my rendezvous with Bill. Even the Kemp kids, David and Katherine, were superfluous in my estimation. I was there to see my buddy. The Tacker family burst through the door like a herd of cattle and I leapt into Bill’s awaiting arms. He scooped me up and took me to his library. The room was yellow and black from floor to ceiling. Bill owned every National Geographic that had ever been printed. Every shelf was jam-packed with the colorful journals, and I couldn’t wait to read them. Bill was never in a hurry to mix it up with the grownups. He hoisted me up on his shoulders so I could check out the top shelves and pull out the most intriguing issues. A pile of magazines filled the couch and we plopped on top. We thumbed through the glossy photos and he read the big words I hadn’t learned yet. But Bill never condescended to speak “kid speak.” With Bill, it was “grown-up speak” all the way. We discussed African culture, Arctic wildlife and European art. I asked a hundred questions, and if he didn’t know the answer, he promised to look it up before we met again. Bill made me feel smart. I learned so much from my friend. My godfather went to meet Jesus at an early age. He had fought diabetes for most of his life. I miss him to this day. I look forward to the day I will cross over Jordan and sit by Bill in his heavenly mansion. We will spend an eternity worshipping Jesus and chatting about old times.

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Luke 19:1-10 recounts the story of Jesus’ interaction with a seedy tax-collector named Zacchaeus. He was hated by his own people and considered to be a thief and a traitor. However, Jesus saw through the man’s fallen behavior to see his feelings and his needs. When Jesus showed Zacchaeus acceptance and love, the man repented, returned that which he had stolen and followed Christ. Who were the people in your life who accepted and respected you? How did their acceptance make you feel? How can you impart that value to others? Think about your family relationships. Do you speak to each other with “grown-up speak?” If not, why not? What can we learn from Christ’s condescension and love for tax collectors and sinners? Think of someone you can pray for this week who needs to receive Jesus. Lift them up in prayer and ask God to open a door to speak with them about the Savior.