Write About Now

As my friends have children it’s interesting to observe their parenting styles.  One friend, with not one but two “strong willed” little people prone to temper tantrums, has been known to abandon her full grocery cart and take one or both outside to the van for a time out (and probably a spanking). Another friend’s daughter obeys the first time, almost every time, because my friend decided age 2 rebellion was easier to deal with than the age 5 (or age 15) variety and began “training the child in the way she should go” beginning in toddlerhood. Two other dear friends require their preschoolers to answer every directive with “Yes, mom” or “Yes, dad,” which eliminates the kids’ opportunity to ignore those terrible requests to pick up toys, get ready for bed, or eat three more bites.

Such tactics are necessary because obedience doesn’t come naturally to us, no matter what our age. The term implies submission to something unpleasant or uninvited, and we don’t always understand our parent’s reason for mandating a clean room or an early bedtime.

It’s the same with our heavenly father—although I believe his commands are motivated by love and concern for my well-being, I don’t always understand why God asks me to do certain things.

Like last night. I’ve blogged about starting a Bible study in my apartment complex and—although I wasn’t sure I wanted to do it—felt sure God did want me to. So last week I created snazzy four-color flyers about a no-obligation info meeting on December 11 and posted them on the bulletin boards around the mailboxes. Last night I made a fire and a pot of coffee, and waited.

And waited. Nothing. No one showed.

To be honest, my reaction was a mixture of disappointment and relief. I am off the hook now, after all—I gave it my best shot and can let go of this without guilty should-haves. But I thought this idea was from God. It certainly was God-honoring. If no one was going to show, why did He have me bother?

Maybe it was my own idea after all. Maybe my faithfulness to the small things is training for being faithful and obedient in something bigger. Or maybe, like picking up my toys even though I’m just going to get them all out again tomorrow, it serves some purpose I don’t understand.

My friends earn and invest the money, buy and cook the food, clean the house, care for the pets, handle the bills, provide the clothes, maintain the cars, and do a thousand other things—they’re happy to be in charge, they love their kids, and all they expect from these little ones is obedience in a few small tasks. My Father dreamed up everything in the universe, created all of it, keeps the whole thing spinning, sent Jesus to rescue it, and still knows the flight plan of every sparrow. He’s in charge, He loves me, and when he asks for obedience I am learning to say, “Yes, Dad”—even when my assigned chores don’t make sense.