What happened this summer, part 2

Picture this, if you will: it’s a hot, blindingly-sunny day in East Texas, and your mission is to get eleven little girls to an air-conditioned building where there is, waiting, cold water and macaroni and cheese and pb&j’s. Or, actually, your mission might be to get the girls to the pool, or the lake, or another of a dozen activities designed to ensure each of the girls has fun every moment they are in your charge.

And you keep being surprised, as the days and weeks pass, at how slowly the girls walk. You develop a special patience for most of them, as they humbly inform you that they are walking just as fast as their smaller legs will allow them; as they remind you, maybe not so humbly, that the sun is hot and they are not used to being outside so much; as they let you know that they are THIRSTY!! And why is [insert activity] so far away?

A lot of what they tell you is true, and so for most of the girls you can empathize—unconsciously, your steps slow until your gait matches, more or less, that of a six-year-old’s. You realize, with a sigh, that yes, you will get to lunch eventually, and that’s really all that matters.

And then you realize, as you do a quick head-count, that you’re short a girl—you glance backward, a little panicked, and see, far back in the distance, the kid.

There is always one.

This is the child who walks slower than slow, who seems to shuffle her feet with a certain delight, and who is always a good twenty yards behind everyone else. And you wonder what’s going through that adorable little head of hers—because she never hears your urgings that “it’s time for lunch!!” or “man, you’re going to love this activity!” She’s fine, doing her own thing, and all your pleadings make no difference whatsoever—not even the assurance that the reason you’re hurrying her is so that, rather than spend another half-hour walking in the sun, you make it to the fun, or to the food, sooner.

 

One day, you get a grand idea, which has worked in the past. You offer, as an incentive, your hand for her to hold as you walk. Please, oh please, come and hold my hand, so that, without you noticing too much, I can gently pull you along and we can talk together instead of me reminding you to keep up!!!! You hold out your hand, waiting for her to run and catch up and take it.

But she doesn’t come.

You keep holding it out, in case she changes her mind, but you realize, with a sort of sadness, that this child is neither moved nor motivated by your gesture of affection. She’d prefer walking by herself, at her own pace.

 

Well, this was my summer, friends:) For the sake of the Gospel, I now walk at the rate of a six-year-old. What I didn’t realize for a long time was that, of all the girls, that last child was who I truly identified with. So much of this summer, and, for that matter, my time at college, has been marked by my stubbornness. I tend to learn the same lessons, over and over again—and usually they have to do with turning over my anxieties to God and trusting Him fully. It’s only after I’ve come to the end of Jo’s ability to handle things and completely wrecked ship that I see how much I’ve fallen back into old habits, such as storing up worries and harboring negative, untrue thoughts that don’t honor God in the slightest. I lag behind God’s perfect will, preferring to suffer in my own stubborn silence than push myself to be nearer Him.

I start thinking, whether consciously or not, that I’m fine without God—that I have things under control, and I can get there (wherever “there” might be) by myself. And I really, really can’t. Now, this might be where this whole analogy thing starts sounding cheesy, but one day this summer I looked back at the little girl wandering on her own, with no interest whatsoever at my outstretched hand, and good grief, I got chills.

Cause God has had His hands stretched back for us since we first let go. Back before we were interested in anything He had to offer, and back before we knew enough to want to simply be near Him. His patience is remarkable, and His love for us is incomparable and everlasting and perfect.

This summer, my job seemed simple: I wanted each of the girls I met to go home knowing that the great and good God of the universe loves them. But that in itself is such an incredible, audacious idea! It was a blessing to watch the girls accept the truth of Jesus’ love without all the questions and doubts that have come with being a little older.

So that’s something I learned this summer. Thanks for reading!

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s