YOU'RE sitting quietly reading Saturday's Evening Telegraph and the doorbell goes. It's you're best friend.

He or she yells at your face: "Why are you reading instead of attending to me?"

"Erm," you reply.

"Don't give me that," the pitch rises to howl. "Play with ME!"

"But I'm in the middle of-"

"Wwaagh!" the howl soars to scream. "ME! (sob) P-p-play with -E!" (double sob).

As you begin to wonder about the choice of best friend, he/she is abruptly sick. Not just any old puny puke. This is Olympic-standard projectile vomiting, and your favourite weekend casuals will never ever be the same again.

Would you win gold for patience? Could you cope?

Of course. We not only put up with something like this regularly, we even plan for it.

Two people did this to me daily for a many months, and I loved them and stuck with, and quite often to, them.

Many a Daily or Evening Telegraph was converted to confetti. Often, they'd take special delight showering me with their last feeds.

The reason we cope? You've guessed it - parenthood!

It doesn't matter how much time they demand or how much they mess up. We love them.

It's even more so with our Heavenly Father, according to his Son (and he should know).

If you "give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give."

Comforting to know that Father God loves us more than we love our own. Hard to understand, but true.