She came running to me, cradling her hand, two brown slivers of wood poking out of her fingertip. One gentle touch made her realize how much it hurt, and she immediately curled her hand tightly closed. We went back to the house and settled her down with an ice cube, Capri Sun, and a kid’s television show before I descended on her finger with a pair of tweezers. It would only take a second to pull them out, I thought optimistically, and we could then move on with our evening.
Half an hour later, we both lay exhausted on the floor, television ignored, drink forgotten, and the splinters still firmly stuck in her little finger. I had tried everything I could think of – cajoling, soothing, bribing (two marshmallows!), threats, and brute force – but the only thing I had ended up with was a sad little girl with eyes red from crying and her hair laying in sweaty chunks across her face as she screamed, “No! No! No!”.
I gave up, wrapped her finger in a Band-Aid, and hugged her tightly before tucking her into bed. Then I sat down on the back porch, rocking and staring out into the trees, as I tried to calm down my adrenaline flushed body and work through the frustration that was still bubbling up inside me.
It would have taken 10 seconds, maybe less, for me to pull out the tiny shards of wood. Over. Done. A pinch, and then the pain would be gone. I was trying to help her and take away her pain, but she just kept kicking and screaming, pushing me away.
But how often do I do the same thing to God?
I kick and scream, pushing God away from my life. I don’t want what He has for me, because it might hurt or be uncomfortable. Worried that I can’t handle what he gives me, I clutch my heart tightly to my chest, not willing to open my hands and let God prune, fix, grow, and stretch what needs to change in order to prepare me for His purposes and will.
I’m sure that sometimes He sits back, smiles sadly at me, and says,
“Rachel, don’t you know that I love you? I only want the best for you, but I can’t heal you if you don’t let me in. Trust My ways, dear child, and I will bring you to a better place.”
I understand her fear, because I have felt it too.
Later, I go in to check on her. She has surrendered to sleep, her bandaged hand sprawled out on the pillow next to her head. I smooth back her still damp hair and pray for her…and me.
“Help us to trust. Help us to uncurl our hands to the ones who love us the most and accept the healing that comes with it. Bless us, Father, even in our lack of trust, and draw us close to you.”
By Rachel Hammond, Circle of QuietLeave a Comment