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…)
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