If you’ve ever had a toddler, you are familiar with this scene: toddler does not get what he wants, toddler screams and cries, toddler throws himself down on the floor, toddler continues the screaming and the crying, Mommy presses her palms to her eyeballs and tries to remember a time when she was a confident adult.
Mommy picks up screaming toddler and holds him. Toddler thrashes and kicks and screams. Mommy speaks soothingly to screaming toddler. Toddler stops thrashing and kicking and just screams and cries. Mommy hugs toddler tightly. Toddler sniffles and hiccups. Mommy pats toddler’s back. Toddler whimpers. Mommy tickles toddler. Toddler laughs. Mommy and toddler sit together, read a book, and grab some Cheerios.
All is right with the world.
But what happens when I am the one screaming and crying and thrashing?
I’ve thrown my own little toddler fit this week, and I think I’m finally ceasing the thrashing and screaming and reaching the point of sniffling and whimpering. I am so much like my toddler. I don’t get what I want, and I think that my Father is cruel and mean and doesn’t love me. But when I finally stop kicking long enough to listen to His voice, when I finally calm down enough to feel His embrace, then I can rest in the comfort of knowing He is going to take care of me.
I don’t know if I’ll ever have the answers to all my questions. I don’t know if I’ll ever know why He’s allowing my dream to evaporate. But I think I’m reaching the point of knowing that even if I don’t receive the answers, He will empower me to be okay with the questions.
Here’s the thing about Saturday: it is a day. It is a short season wedged between something awful and something amazing. Sunday is coming. Don’t know when, don’t know what it will look like, but I do know that it’s coming.
So I might as well settle myself down, cuddle up with my tattered baby blanket, stick my thumb in my mouth, and rest in my Father’s lap.