God hangs out at YoMama

The other day I had the pleasure of going out for froyo with some awesome friends. The place was filled with adorable small children, as these kinds of places often are. As has become habit in recent years, I watched them wander about with intense curiosity and amusement. One particular scene caught my eye.

Next to the cash register was a large glass display case full of all sorts of sweets and delightful baked goods involving lots of frosting (nom nom nom). A dad was at the register, attempting to purchase two frozen yogurts beautifully decked out with all sorts of colorful additions, clearly not for him. They were intended for his two adorable sons-- one of which had found himself comfortably tucked on his dad’s hip, the other on the ground, peering into the aforementioned display. As the dad juggled his wallet and his squirming toddler, the boy on the ground started to wail and whine, leaving smears as he pounded his hands against the glass.

“Daddy, I want this! I want this! Daddyyyyyyyyy,” he wailed, trying as hard as he possibly could to get his dad’s attention. He continued to gaze at all the treats as if they were the solution to all his three-year-old problems. His petition for treats from the glass case continued throughout the entire exchange at the cashwrap. He was miserable. I am positive that in his little mind, he was being deprived of The. Greatest. Thing. Ever.

But his dad knew differently, as was evidenced by his sheer focus on buying those two dishes of frozen yogurt. In my entire time observing the scene, I think the dad may have said one thing to his son. My guess is that it was something simple, like, “Just wait, son.” Because while his son had clearly forgotten about the delicious yogurt and colorful sprinkles he had moments earlier been joyously celebrating over, the father had not. Dad was taking the necessary steps to give his son what he truly wanted: the frozen yogurt. While the toddler was enchanted by the delicacies he could see right before him, the father was paying for the thing the little boy would truly enjoy. While the son had quickly moved on to the next yummy thing he could see, his father was doing what was necessary to give his son what he wanted at the proper time.

The scenario probably lasted three minutes. But the truth is, this is no three-minute scenario in a frozen yogurt shop. This is as accurate a picture of my own life as they come. How quickly do I move on to the next shiny thing,  not trusting that my Father is making the necessary preparations to not just give me what I truly desire (which is too often a cheapened version of what will bring real joy), but to give me what is best, to give me what is good, to give me what He truly desires for His child? I want whatever I can see because, like a child, the moment something leaves my tangible realm of experience, I forget it exists.

Oh, the conviction that came with those toddler-sized handprints smeared across the glass. When will I stop selfishly demanding what looks good and easy and in my immediate grasp? When is the last time I will forget that my Daddy was at the cash register 2,000 years ago? When will I remember at every moment that my Father is not just making me a proverbial dish of satisfying frozen yogurt (which frankly, is guaranteed to not always be covered in pretty little sprinkles) but is offering His very presence and Self to me?

One need only take their eyes off the pastry case and look up.

(Bonus: the boy later had a meltdown that involved the dire need for Dad to hold his temporary tattoo. Bedtime for Bonzo…)

It rained. So I ran.

Today, I ran. In the rain. Like I’ve been praying for a chance to do. It seems as though I keep missing my opportunity. Mostly because Milwaukee doesn’t know how to do a decent rain. Three key criteria: 1) it’s raining hard. 2) the drops are of a substantial size. 3) it rains for more than five minutes. Consistent fail on the third criterion. Including today. But I’ll take it.

This morning, I woke up to a sizeable amount of anxiety and worry. I hate those mornings. It’s a disappointment to discover that eight hours of sleep has not wiped away the problems of yesterday, or at least wiped them from the forefront of one’s consciousness. But as I was just reading, sleep is rest for the body, not the spirit. Rest for the spirit comes from time in the Word and time in prayer. Without that...we get mornings like these.

The unfriendly morning companions left me feeling exhausted and defeated. I boarded the bus that way, and I went to work that way. I even took it out on a giant pile of tangled necklaces (I can think of at least three f-bombs and countless death glares exacted upon those things). I could almost taste the defeat as I entered the apartment. And I would have continued to bathe in it had it not been for the rain.

Recognizing the opportunity before it was gone, I grabbed my still-wet-from-the-Smokys running gear and got the heck out there. As everyone around me ran for cover, I ran out into the downpour with arms wide open. Literally.

And it was as if the rain was washing away the grimy residue of that morning. Each drop ran down my skin and left a trail of tangible freshness. As I ran, the word “rebaptism” raced across my mind. As if this rain, this run in the rain, was a reminder of the newness I have the opportunity to experience and embrace each and every day. I grinned as my feet found every puddle, soaking up as much rainwater as possible. The wider I smiled and the faster I ran, the more it seemed the rain was washing my body and my spirit anew.  

As the rain ended, I too slowed and came to an eventual stop in the middle of a flock of geese that seemed content to watch as I took a big stomp into the small lake of a puddle they had congregated around and let the rainwater drench me to the core. “Thank you, gentlegeese.”

Today’s run was one of those moments when I finally remember that I am free. Christ has made me new, made me clean, and made me free. Why do I keep trying to live as if none of those things are true? Why do I seem content to bathe in the stink of self-pity and sit in an already unlocked jail cell? This is where I forgo the temptation to tie this story up in a cute little bow. Truth is, I’m still working on the answer. But step by step, rainy run by rainy run, God continues to gracefully and faithfully give me more understanding of His Gospel, of His Word, and of Himself. And I’ll keep jumping in every puddle until He’s finished with me.

“’What a fool I have been, to lie like this in a stinking dungeon, when I could have just as well walked free. In my chest pocket I have a key called Promise that will, I am thoroughly persuaded, open any lock in Doubting-Castle.’ ‘Then,’ said Hopeful, ‘that is good news. My good brother, do immediately take it out of your chest pocket and try it.’ Then Christian took the key from his chest and began to try the lock of the dungeon door; and as he turned the key, the bolt unlocked and the door flew open with ease, so that Christian and hopeful immediately came out.” John Bunyan, The Pilgrim’s Progress

The Beginning

Several months ago, I had an urge or a sense or a calling or something to begin writing. For real. Not just witty statuses or pithy comments or eloquent texts, but writing about emotions and thoughts and events in my life. Things God was showing me, things I was learning from other people, things I was discovering about myself. I got jacked about the idea, feeling a surge of passion reminiscent of days past. Live with passion. A phrase that once meant everything to me had withered away, shriveling in the burning heat of stress and time constraints, broken and breaking dreams. Survival mode.

A commitment to write each and every day awoke something within me. The thought of having an opportunity to use my love for and (alleged) skill with words in a way that could glorify God and possibly make a difference in the lives of others excited me. As the thought raced through my mind, it was like I was inhaling for the first time in a long time.

And then…nothing. I did nothing with it. I came back to the normal, to the ho-hum of daily living. Well, as normal as things get around here, anyway. I was caught up in the current idols of my heart, preoccupied with fixing rather than following. And in the process, I started holding my breath again. My chest started burning and my head was spinning, but I ignored the signs and kept going. Kept pushing.

But I’m tired of fighting myself, tired of running from God. Tired of running from the thought that I might possibly have something to offer. Fear drives me in a way I am ashamed and saddened to admit. Fear that I may possess a gift that means working harder. Fear of finding out that I could be so much better than I am; that I could be doing so much more than I already do. I know it sounds backward, but I don’t want to know what I could do. Because for me, that means I’m failing. Failing to be whatever I could be by not even trying. For some twisted reason, I’d prefer to be mediocre. But how I can I battle the lie that I’m not anything unique or special or worthwhile to others when I won’t allow myself to be those things to God or to me?

It’s time. It’s time to step up. It’s time to open myself up to truth. It’s time to allow God to show me who I am. Who He has made me to be. How He has designed me in such a way that I bring Him to the world in a way no one else does.

And so I embark on this writing journey. Much like my recent foray into running, there will be good days and bad days. I will drop the ball on more than one occasion. Not everything I write will make it to the public. But I am facing my fears and my insecurities. I am moving forward, knowing that He has gone before me. I am going to write.

And I am going to live with passion.