So, I have this plaque that used to sit above my coffee maker; I’m pretty sure I told you about it before. It says, “Good morning. This is God. I’ll be handling all your problems today.” Judging by my stress level and the anxiety medications my doctor felt inspired to suggest as he asked kindly if I had a therapist, apparently that site just wasn’t in plain enough sight.
I did the obvious, and moved the coffee maker – not really. I moved the plaque. When you come down my stairs immediately you are confronted (might sound like an assault, and if you haven’t had enough sleep it certainly feels that way) by a very large plantation-shuttered window. Well, I stood on my tippy-tip toes and stretched the full length of my just-under 5 ft tall body and shoved that plaque to the top ridge of the shutter. Now I couldn’t miss those words unless I was deliberately evading them, and I was never good at hide’n seek. I see that assurance every time I come/fall/trip down the stairs, and with the state of my memory right now, believe me, I’m making an inordinate number of trips back up the stairs: for the shoes already by the front door, the cell phone already in my purse, the sweater already on my body. I guess you could say my unreliable memory is a blessing. Now I see, really see, that plaque 12-15 times a day. And the memory thing is turning out to be excellent for my thighs, too – bonus!
I sat on the stairs today and stared at the plaque, serenely contemplated it. To be honest, I had just fallen down three steps and thought it was a fine place to rest before trying to find my balance again. But nothing is by accident, and that place on the stairs, the perfect place to meditate on that sign, well, landing on that step was by His design. I needed to be there this morning; I needed private time with Him, and He desired it with me. Normally my quiet time is when I am running, but that hasn’t been possible recently, and I just pray that it will be again soon. Anyway…
I bought that plaque, “This is God…”, because my first reaction was, “How cute,” – something to smile about, but also because it touched that place deep inside where mostly I’m afraid to talk about to other people, afraid it makes me seem weak, definitely makes me vulnerable. Those words brushed right through my chest and every so gently tapped that dark place that I normally shelter from even myself and asked, “Do you trust me?”
When Auz, my nephew, was maybe 4 or 5, he broke his arm. Auz, never one to keep his opinions to himself, carefully watched as the Air Force medical technician wrapped his arm in the gauzy plaster. Because the cast would cover most of his hand, the technician had left some of the gauze hanging down to wrap later. Auz was suspicious of that gauze so far left hanging and announced that in his opinion the technician was doing his job incorrectly. My point is that Auz lacked the necessary trust – thought he could do it better, and did, in fact, give the medical technician instructions on the job. Had the med tech followed those instructions that cast would have looked like something out of a Monty Python movie, and his arm would never have healed correctly.
Most of my life has been like that, which is why I need that plaque. See, I tell God how I want Him to fix my broken and hurting parts. I carefully explain why my option is exactly the right option, and then I wait for him (non too patiently I might add) for those things, my way of fixing things, to come to fruition. I wait, and wait, and wait a very long time, because, really, it’s my own thinking that gets me into my own messes mostly. Why would my own thinking be the best way out?
So, TRUST looms large in my life. I am afraid to let go of, well, anything. I love God. I love my family. I love my friends. But how do I let go of the things that I can’t control, which is everything. I want the release of handing everything to Abba, to physically let go. Someday, by His grace, I’ll look up at that plaque and answer, “Good morning, Father. Thanks for handling my problems today.”
The Unexpected Life 