Today I’m writing at Pause and Pray about finding God in the simple things. Come check it out!
Tanku: Learning Trust From a Toddler
Earlier this month, my grandson was quite sick. He was in the ICU, treated with IV fluids, oxygen machines, suctioning, and frequent breathing treatments. It had to be difficult for him to understand.
With each new torture, he signed, “All done, all done!” willing it to be over. As each torture finished, he clapped his hands, “Yay, yay!” And often, he followed that clapping with his simple word, “Tanku,” aka, thank you.
I’ve reflected on this now that he is home, safe and healthy. Yes, he’s a happy baby with a big heart, but that couldn’t explain all his reactions.
Finally, I realized it was trust. He trusted his parents and me, and therefore also the hospital staff. He had no idea why we were doing things he didn’t like or understand, but he knew we loved him and wouldn’t hurt him.
It reminds me of God’s words in Jeremiah: I know full well the plans I have for you, plans for your welfare and not for your misfortune, plans that will offer you a future filled with hope (29:11, NCB).
We want to trust God because we know he loves us and wants the best for us – but it’s not easy.
We question his wisdom: “God, I have a better idea…”
We second guess his plans: “Are you sure God? This doesn’t seem right to me.”
And we doubt his love: “If you really cared about me, you wouldn’t put me through this.”
We all go through tough times. It’s part of the human experience. But just because we’re struggling doesn’t mean God abandoned us. Just because life gets difficult doesn’t mean God isn’t right here, walking us through it.
So next time I have trouble trusting God’s plans, I will remember my grandson’s example and say, “Tanku, God.”
Just Another Day
I enter the tiny exam room where only a month ago, Dick first mentioned a new cough. Now the oxygen cord hangs from his nose and snakes down to the huge tank on the floor beside him. He wears his pink shorts and flowery polo shirt, even though he won’t be going to the golf course today.
He carries a book under his arm, just in case I am behind schedule, and his usually tanned skin hangs from his gaunt face with a deathly pallor. He pushes himself up from the chair and gets short of breath from the exertion. I reach for him as his balance wobbles, and he pulls me into a long, tight hug.
“I don’t have much energy these days,” he says. “Good thing I’ve gotten so forgetful; now I can read the books in my library all over again.” I laugh at his joke, as always. His wife laughs, too, like it’s the first time she’s ever heard this clever comment. They’ve been married for 57 years, and as she twirls the wedding ring on her finger, I sit down between them and begin the conversation I’ve dreaded.
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