Its that time of year when we balance looking back with looking ahead. We look back at the regrets and mistakes of the past year and vow not to repeat them. We look back at the joys and blessings and try to figure out how to keep them.
We map a New Year filled with all the good and none and of the bad; make our plans and resolutions, all the while declining to acknowledge that we aren’t really in control.
Remember Woody Allen’s saying, “If you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans”? I don’t envision Him sitting up in heaven blatantly thwarting my dreams for a perfect life. I do see Him smiling and asking, “Why do you insist on going your own way? Why don’t you listen to My voice and let Me help you?”
My daughter, Jordan, recently ran her first half marathon. As with her sister before her, I planned to cheer from various vantage points along the course.
“See you at five miles, ten and the finish line!” I called, dropping her off as close to the starting point as I could. The early morning air was chilly and brisk, full of excitement as other runners were dropped off and other families wished them good luck.
Only after she got out of the car did I realize two important problems. The first was that many streets were closed that morning to accommodate the runners. The second was that I do not know Richmond at all. My GPS did not acknowledge the closed roads, and the detour signs were inconsistent. I gave up the plan to cheer at the 5th and 10th mile markers and decided instead to head out of the downtown area to a park the course passed through. I figured at least there would be parking at a park and said a quick prayer for God to help me find my way.
Unfortunately, all the roads that accessed the park were closed, and there was no easy go-around. I drove around aimlessly for a while, in and out of charming neighborhoods, where people were still asleep or at least warm inside enjoying their coffee. I pulled in front of a little bungalow, just as a couple and their dog came out. I rolled down the window and asked if they knew where the marathon route was.
Lately
I’ve been thinking a lot about trust. Such a simple word to say; such a
difficult thing to do.
I realize I don’t quite trust anyone but myself. I spend a lot of mental energy devising back up plans: an alternate dinner in case my daughter forgets its her turn to cook; a dog sitter list in case my regular one cancels at the last minute; a different route to work in case there is flooding or road work. If I’m honest, I don’t even trust God; I ask for His help but always have a plan of my own in case He doesn’t come through. I waste so much time preparing for events that never even happen. What an exhausting way to live!
Maybe it grew out of the knowledge that no one is perfect and that even those we love can let us down. More likely it grew out of my ongoing need for control -another simple word, but one that can wreak havoc on my life. I bet you can relate.
Control is illusive. Every time I think I’ve come up with a
contingency plan for the problems in my life, something unexpected pops up.
Every time I think I have my schedule – or my house, or my patients, or my diet
or my exercise, etc. – under control, something unexpected derails me.
Ever
wonder if you heard God wrong and you’re supposed to be doing something
different? Periodically those thoughts tiptoe uninvited into my brain, and I
wrestle with what-if questions, too
Last week I met some very powerful and accomplished women at a conference. Jealousy crept in as I mulled over how old I am, questioned dreams I have yet to fulfill, and wondered about where I am in life. One of those powerful women happened to be with me at the time and my doubts spilled into our small group sharing.
“Maybe you’re exactly where your
supposed to be,” she said. “Maybe Satan is trying to discourage you because you’re
doing such a good job.” Her comment caught me off guard, and frankly, surprised
me. I rarely think about the devil and speak of him even less. I thanked her at
the end of our session and headed outside for time to consider her words.
What an interesting theory, I
reflected as I meandered onto a nature trail next to the conference center. As
usually happens when I am outdoors, my thoughts lightened. The sunshine warmed my
perspective and my face; the birds distracted me with their song, and the plants
and flowers perked my curiosity. Gradually I felt better and headed back for
the next meeting.
As I crossed onto a boardwalk over classic
North Carolina swampland, a dozen birds up ahead pranced on the path and squawked
loudly. I didn’t pay much attention, until the stick they were fussing over
raised its head and hissed. The snake was sill a good fifteen feet ahead of me,
but the wooden path was narrow and the swamp below squishy with mud.
Although we lived on a lake in my early childhood and I knew
how to ice skate, I never learned then how to swim. I loved the water; I just
didn’t feel any overwhelming desire to be under it.
Then came third grade swimming lessons at the community pool. I tried to love the lessons, really, I did, but there was nothing fun about being cold and wet. My tense paper-weight-like body refused to float and instead I reliably sank. While the other beginner students jumped in and out with joyful abandon, I gently lowered myself inch by chilly inch into the water. Instead of graceful arms and fluttering feet my strokes looked like a flapping chicken hit the water. So, when the day came for everyone to jump off the diving board, I was not enthusiastic.
My mom wisely stayed home that day, and my dad came instead. I had no intention of going off the board, but he gradually talked me into it. After watching everyone else have their turn, and noting no near-death experiences, I decided I could at least try. Here is a key detail though: I still couldn’t really swim. Everyone thought that as soon as I jumped into the deep end, weeks of lessons would suddenly click, and I would paddle proudly over to the edge and climb out. That most definitely did not happen.
