Tomorrow will mark day six of the plague flu in our home. I’ve never been a big fan of the post-apocalyptic shows like The Walking Dead, but I’ve read plenty of similarly themed books. From what I can tell, we’re doomed. This is the part where the folks who have yet to be contaminated cut us off from the rest of society and we are forced to forge our own path in a new contaminated, colony of our own. My husband, Ryan is clearly the hero in our version and I am the dead weight that he carries around (read as- goes to pick up take out food for on a regular basis). But the crux of our story is my four-year-old daughter, Avery’s journey as she’s been hit hardest by the merciless funk.
It’s been enlightening for me, my delight in offering her the slightest comfort. Meeting her in her pain, validating her hurt, meeting her needs, again and again, these moments aren’t the burden I always assume they are when it’s me who needs them. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her. When she cries that her stomach hurts or she’s cold, I’m not angry that she needs again. I’m desperate to meet her need and bring her suffering to an end.
Yesterday, she stood next to the bed and cried that her stomach hurt.
I said, “Perhaps you should try to go the restroom.”
She shook her head no.
“Maybe you should lay down and rest for a bit.”
I said I could give her some medicine for her stomach.
She began sobbing.
“Baby, what’s wrong.”
“I’m just wondering if you have any other ideas because I don’t like those.”
I did not. But as I was pondering, digging into the far recesses of my mind, she offered up this idea.
“I’m just wondering if maybe we should go to Target and get me a prize? I’m wondering if maybe you think that’s a good idea?”
And I couldn’t help but laugh because it was just so me.
That after the Lord would whisper his instructions, I would shrug them away and offer up, “What about this? How about instead of all of those things that make sense but don’t sound like fun, we ignore the fact that I’m contaminated, still in my pajamas and rocking record-setting bed head while running a fever over a hundred and we head on over to Target and pick me up a lil’ something fun. How about that plan, God? I really think that one’s a winner.”
These are the times that I am so thankful that I am not God. My mind, my ability to fix, to heal, to restore, to comfort, to know what to do next are so limited.
But his is not. He knows exactly what I need. Exactly when I need it.
I wonder what would happen if I shrugged his instructions, his whispers, his ideas off less. What if I stopped deeming them not fun, not possible, not for me? What if I just trusted that He was a loving Father who delighted in meeting my needs and bringing an end to my suffering? Would my stomach stop hurting? Would I eventually end up with a prize from Target, too?
If today, you find yourself struggling to accept God’s instructions and wanting to offer him some more appealing suggestions can I encourage you to let him take care of you? It isn’t a burden to him. He doesn’t grow tired of meeting your needs. He delights in being your source of comfort and unlike me, he doesn’t run out of ideas. You can trust him. He’ll never kick you out of the colony, even if you get the flu.