Greshniku

We talked in our Bible Study about becoming like one of the little children to enter the kingdom of Heaven, and it brought this story to mind. Sorry for the girls who are hearing this for the second time…

My dad pulled up to the elementary school in our little family car, a broad smile on his face. “Hop in!” His eyes sparkled in that way that eyes do when there’s a surprise coming. My brother, sister and I climbed in, feeling the effect of his enthusiasm, but not knowing what was in store for us.

We noticed right away that we weren’t heading back to our house. But Dad was driving, and he probably knew what he was doing. Afterall, he’d been driving us around for years, and hadn’t accidently forgotten to go home even once. Maybe, our hopefull hearts thought, we get to go to the gas station and get a soda! But much to our dismay, Dad drove right past the gas station. As my young vision had only managed to imagine an ice-cold coke-a-cola, my hopes faded with the view of the gas station out the back window.

Fresh out of ideas, I turned my curiosity toward my dad, whose trademark dimples betrayed his otherwise calm exterior. We imediately began pelting him with eager questions, each inquiry implying that maybe he wasn’t quite as in control as we’d thought. “Daddy, did you mean to miss the station?” “Does Mom know about this?” And finally, the obvious, “Daddy, where are we going, then?”

He just smiled, mm-hmmed, and laughed at our peppered questions, telling us with that familiar spark that it was a surprise and we were going to have to just trust him.

Throughout the duration of that hour-long car trip, we asked a thousand questions; we poked and pried and guessed and sighed, and he loved it. But behind each question was unwavering trust, enthusiasm for the adventure, and a willingness to go absolutely anywhere our daddy wanted to take us. We never for a moment assumed he was taking us anywhere unsafe, or that he was going to take us far away and then leave us behind. We never questioned his right to disrupt our daily routine. We thrived in his adventure, and he rewarded us for our williness to participate wholeheartedly.

Sometimes, I think God pulls up, opens the car door, and asks me simply to hop in. His eyes sparkle as He thinks about all the plans He has, knowing that if I just trust Him, I’m in for an adventure. But I stand on the sidewalk and waver. How do I know I even want to go? When will I be back? How much am I going to miss if I go? How do I know He isn’t asking me to go somewhere terrible? Instead of trusting Him, sharing in His joy, and thriving in the moment, I stand back and demand answers.

The grown-up me – the one who doubts and fears and worries and analyzes – she stands on the sidewalk, afraid to start living.  The little girl me – the one who trusted completely and hadn’t fully perfected the art of controlling everything – she couldn’t wait to trust her daddy. She leaped wholeheartedly, without reserve, doubts, or fears. She had questions, but the lack of answers didn’t even challenge her solid faith in the ultimate goodness of her provider and protector. And she got an adventure.

I’d say it’s about time to hop in the car.

I actually wrote this awhile ago, but lately I’ve been reading a lot about Israel the character (embodying the entire nation of God’s chosen children). I’ve always been fascinated/repelled by/drawn to Israel as a character. She had God. She had daily, irreproachable proof. And yet, how often she failed to see Him. Sounds familiar, yes?

I am Israel.

With God walking in front of me – guiding each day and night,

I forget Him.

I give in to every impulse to sin.

And then I slink back to God, like Gomer, who comes home in the early morning hours -

- shame and scandal my only clothes.

Each morning, I promise it was the very last time.

Each night, I crawl out again – hating myself too much to stay.

I am Israel.

The faithfulness of God a daily reminder of my own weakness.

I turn to the things that can never fill me, knowing, at least, that we deserve each other. I can never obey and they can never fulfill.

I am Israel,

Constantly in need of rescue, I call out to the God I’ve abandoned.

He comes back for me every time. Asking, ever asking, “Will you love me this time?”

Knowing my answer and the inevitable future will never match. He scoops me up and carries me home.

If only I could stay.

If only – just once – I could be strong. Stronger than the voice that calls me away – the voice that knows how easy it is to get me back.

I am Israel.

Knowing God – and turning away.

Knowing He’ll always come back for me.

And hating the fact that

I am Israel.