Dad and the Éclair
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When I was a preteen, my family and I were having dinner
once in a restaurant that had a dessert counter at the hostess station. So
before you saw anything else you were greeted with sugary temptation. And
that’s where it was…the most beautiful éclair I had ever seen. Every other
dessert in the case seemed to be angled in such a way as to draw attention to
its magnificence. It was lit so beautifully. I knew I had to have it. From the
love at first sight moment on, it became my mission to convince my dad of the
absolute need for it in my life. Bugged the poor man. While we waited for a
table. All throughout dinner. Because God forbid dad forget I wanted that
éclair.
After my incessant reminders, I had finally worn him down
and he ordered the éclair, I am sure, to give himself back the gift of peace.
So I sat and waited for the waiter to bring me the dessert that I was sure was
going to be heaven on a plate. Took the first bite, expectantly. The taste
could best be described as a combination of sawdust and curdled cream. I could
not believe that this thing that was so beautiful while on display could taste
like a punishment. It was in this moment that I understood that petrification
does just that – preserves the pretty. Because I am confident the éclair
had died days, if not weeks (!) prior. Pretty sure I cried. Poor dad. Because
now the begging had turned to “Please don’t make me eat this. It is nasty and
spoiled.” Dad laughed his head off and told me that I was in fact going to eat the
whole thing because I had bothered him so much about it.
When I recently reminded my dad of this story, he had no
recollection. (Of course not –for him it was another day of parenting. For me,
it was a memory seared by the realization that sugar could be punishment.) He
is, however, convinced it was a brilliant parenting move; I think I even saw
him pat his own back over this moment he doesn’t remember. But I remember it
vividly – even moreso today (hold tight for the Jesus Juke) because I am in a
season that flat-out sucks. And I do the same thing with Jesus. Beg Him for the
thing I think will save everything. That will fulfill the dream. Be amazing.
Fill me up. God (unfortunately/fortunately) does not wear down. He cannot be
convinced the nasty éclair is actually wonderful. I would love to say in all
the years I have known Jesus, my first instinct is to just trust. But the truth
is I struggle with it, and that is likely why I keep ending up back in this
classroom.
When my daughter was little, any kind of change could send
her reeling, even small ones. But her world was ever so small, so to her, these
changes were not inconsequential. Once when she had outgrown her hat and it no
longer covered her ears, I bought her a new one. The first time I put it on
her, she had the kind of fit that makes a new parent question his or her
ability to carry out the job functions. I tried everything to calm her down, aside
from removing the hat. She wanted the hat gone. I knew that I knew better. So I
whispered to her, “I love you. You need to trust me.” As I said the last part,
I felt God breathe the same words into my own ears and heart. My daughter could
not begin to fathom my knowledge of the world nor my motivations regarding her.
My experience was so much vaster than hers. So her only choice was to know ME.
Know I had proven I loved her and was taking care of her. I do what I think is
in the best interest of my daughter. Me with my limited control. My limited
knowledge. Love motivates me, so right or wrong (because I am fallible) that
alone makes me trustworthy. And then there is God. With actual control.
All-knowing. Infallible. When I think of my daughter’s meltdown, I can’t help
but land on the simple truth: I know more than she is even aware exists. So how
much more potent is it when God, who spoke all of it into existence with mere
words, tells me I can trust Him? It is His system. His design. Talk about
knowing more than I am aware exists…
There seems to always be a moment, almost a last stage of
faith if you will, where our own will gives, our fear is booted out, we release
our grip and a beautiful relinquishment occurs. The place where we lean into
the “what ifs,” release any notion that we have control, and surrender. This is
when God says, “Now I can move.” We see this so gorgeously illustrated in the
stories of Esther and Jacob. When Esther makes the decision to align herself
with her people (the Jews) and go before the king –breaking the law because she
was not formally invited to speak to him – to petition him on behalf of the
Jews scripture records her saying, “If I
perish, I perish.” (Esther 4:16) Jacob expresses a similar sentiment when
he must send his son –the only remaining son of Rachel –to the governor of
Egypt and says, “If I am bereaved. I am
bereaved.” (Genesis 43:14) Jesus, knowing the cross was before Him, says
the same thing in its rawest form while He prayed in Gethsemane, “My soul is
crushed with grief to the point of death…My Father! If it is possible, let this
cup of suffering be taken away from me. Yet
I want your will, not mine.” (Matthew 26:38-39) So we give up in order to
be free. To get out of His way so He can accomplish what is infinitely better
than our short sightedness can see.
Beth Moore stated it more eloquently than I can in her
Esther Bible study, “Our conditional trust not only makes us an open target for
enemy torment; it also positions us as negotiators and beggars before God
instead of secure children who trust their lives to their faithful Father…The
most critical breakthrough of faith you and I could ever experience is to let
God bring us to a place where we trust Him –period. We don’t just trust Him to
let us avoid what we fear most. We determine to trust Him no matter what, even
if our worst nightmare befalls us.”
I am glad that despite my pleading, God goes not give me the
éclair just because I want it. His infinite love and wisdom wants better for me
than some spoiled éclair. Even when I don’t always agree.
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