all Papa wants is a Barbie.

We were celebrating Christmas. The little girls and I were. Two years ago.

Sweet little loves waded through the torn paper and ribbons, and grandma whispered her thoughts in my ear.  

"Did we get her the right thing?" as she glanced over at the Barbie fashion boutique set the four year old had unwrapped. 

I kind of cringe when I look at Barbies. Tanned plastic bodies and long blonde hair with dream houses and a pink car. I just avoid them at all costs when it comes to getting gifts for little girls, for fear of a warped sense of self. 

However, by 2010, Barbies had been showing up all over in my world. Birthdays, Christmases, even just for a special treat on a Target trip. 

Precious little Erin always seemed to have one tucked under her arm wherever she went. 

There were Barbies in the car. Barbies in the backyard playhouse. Barbies under my bed and Barbies in the shower. 

"Of course you did. Look." I point her toward Erin who had already enlisted her grandpa to free hair stylist Barbie from her plastic bonds. Sweet little girl was carrying Barbie with her cardboard shears and shiny apron around the living room proudly showing her off to the rest of her toys. 

I didn't need to explain further for grandma to see. Erin loved her little dolls. The Barbie was the perfect gift. 

When school started up again in January, I picked up the girls. I stopped in Erin's preschool classroom, and bent down to pick up her leftover construction paper poinsettia, her perfectly imperfect snowflake cutout, and various other Christmas crafts that had collected in her cubby. 

In the mix was a tiny little box addressed to Jesus. Decorated in colored paper and smothered in tape, a bright red bow adorned the top. On the back, in the perfect handwriting of her most wonderful teacher, it read "I would give baby Jesus a Barbie and my snuggle. Erin, 2010."

Snuggle is the blanket she has slept with since she was born. 

Her favorite things. 

Her most treasured things. 

The things she can't live without. 

She offered them to Jesus. 

Her best things. 

Not her sister's toys. Not her leftovers that she's outgrown. Not something she didn't care about. 

In her preschool world, she came and presented Him with the best things she could possibly offer. 

I came home, showed it to momma, and we both cried. and every Christmas, that precious mom sends me a picture of that amazing little box that she pulls out as a reminder. I opened that text message today overwhelmed once again by the beautiful picture her daughter painted. 

Do I give Him my best? My most favorite. The things I tuck under my arm. The things always by my side. Do I give Jesus the most treasured things I own, the things that belong to Him anyway?

All Papa wants is a Barbie. At least from sweet little Erin. 

From me? From me, He wants the finest I have, the first I earn, the sweetest and most precious things in my heart. He wants my first hour, my best concentration, my most prized talents and gifts. 

He wants it all. 

He deserves it all. 

Am I willing to give it to Him?

Hugs, 

Lyss