My brain struggles to keep straight the four purposes for which I climbed the stairs. I chant them over and again in my head: grab laundry basket, pick up towels in bathroom, put away last of little boys’ laundry, bring library book downstairs. Because the last three trips up the stairs ended in a distracted trip down the stairs without mission accomplished, I am determined to stay on task this time.
Then, she finds me.
“Mom, you told me you’d get me that juice. When can I get on the iPad? You said I could do that game and you’d give me a drink…”
I hear her but I can’t do that right now. Not this second. I’ve got a load of laundry waiting for those towels. I need that basket to get clean clothes out of the dryer. And, Lord only knows if that library book doesn’t come downstairs it may never be found again. So, I say it:
“Just a minute.”
Now, the hard thing is she’s old enough to know how many seconds are in a full minute and about how long a second last. So, she proceeds to count it out. Following me from room to room, she begins to “help” me keep my promise.
“One, two, three, four, five, six…” Every move I make, she is one step behind.
“Katie, I told you just a minute.”
“I know, I’m counting ’til one minute. Seven. Eight. Nine…”
“That’s not going to make the minute go any faster,” I quip back. Dang. I already can only remember three of my tasks. Laundry basket. Towels. What else was I going to do up here?
“Ten, eleven, twelve…” She’s not even trying to count under her breath anymore. She’s loud. Her counting starts making my blood pressure rise, like the music they play during Final Jeopardy.
Then it hits me. Is this what I do to God?
I say, “God, I’d like you take care of this for me.”
He says, “Wait, child. Be patient. I always take care of things.”
And, then I proceed to follow him around pretending to count. “Hello, up there, God. You know you said to wait. How long was that exactly? I’ve already counted to eight hundred twice now and you haven’t taken care of this problem yet.”
Every day I wake up and keep counting, “Six hundred and forty-three, six hundred and forty-four, six hundred and forty-five…”
Just like my child doesn’t realize the order of my steps or the way I sometimes need to take care of first things first, before I can accommodate her needs or even provide for what she desires, I default to a position of immaturity. I start my tantrum because the proverbial minute is “up” and my request hasn’t been magically granted.
I get discouraged, disgruntled, and even depressed because my perceived need hasn’t been met.
And God says, “Wait a minute. I’m working.”
I look at my watch. I impatiently tap my foot staring at the sky. I give “the look.” Yet, none of these actions hasten his response.
He stays on course. He doesn’t forget the third or the fourth things on his list. He’s not fallible, weak and imperfect like I am.
He’s intentional. He’s good. And, he has a plan that’s worth waiting for.
Even if it takes longer than a minute.
What has God made you wait for?
Does it seem as if God is delayed in answering your prayers for help in your body image struggles? Help with your marriage? Help with your job? Help with your children?
Today let me encourage you to be patient. Trust he’s working. And remember that he’s a good father.
Be still before the LORD and wait patiently for him; do not fret when people succeed in their ways, when they carry out their wicked schemes. Psalms 37:7
Don’t miss any posts in this series! Subscribe below or catch up on what you’ve missed by clicking here.