Self-forgetfulness is either a sign of maturity or of just old age. But what a lovely stage in life at which to arrive. A wise sage expressed it perfectly: “When you’re twenty, you care what everyone thinks about you. When you’re forty, you stop caring what everyone thinks about you. And when you’re sixty, you realize that no one was ever thinking about you in the first place!”

Well, almost no one. There is someone who is still thinks about us, and who in fact has always thought about us, and if we can stretch our minds to infinity, thought about us before we were born. And not in some abstract sense. An ancient songwriter, whose songs are recorded in the Book, put it this way: “All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be. How precious to me are your thoughts, O God! How vast is the sum of them! Were I to count them, they would outnumber the grains of sand.”

How humbling, to consider that my Creator thinks about me far more than I know, and in volume of thoughts more than anyone can count. How encouraging, to consider that He thinks about me, not on just the milestones of my life, but in all the in-betweens.  And how releasing, to remember that what He thinks about me is what really counts. And what a joy to be content in the love of just one like.