Brennan Manning said that. I've waffled with thinking it's true or not a bunch of times. Surely the base of trust is rooted in something more than just the ability to be thankful. But the more I think about it and run it over in my mind, and have those words stick with me through some hard times, the more I realize how true they are.
I know that the opposite of love is not hate: it's apathy. The opposite of trust is not independence, as I so often seem to think and act out. The antithesis of trust is fear. I am almost always afraid in one form or another. But how afraid would I be if I simply looked at facts, and was grateful for what I found. It's a very simple truth, that if you just start counting your blessings, all of a sudden you find that you're just not afraid anymore.
Let's say, for the sake of a point, that I become paralyzed with the fear that Peter will cheat on me. He'll find a younger, prettier, easier woman to spend his time with and he'll leave Bella and I. I can take my mind down this road until I'm a total mess. Once I'm already afraid, Peter's words that he loves me and would never do that are useless to me. I'm terrified that he's lying. Telling me he isn't doesn't soothe me. But lets say I take a moment and very clearly list to myself what I know about Peter, what I can take in with my senses.
-Peter tells me he loves me all the time. He spontaneously says it at times when I feel unlovable.
-Peter is a man of integrity. He is a man who has never once broken his word to me in even the smallest thing.
-Peter is a perfectionist. Peter is someone who tries his best at literally everything he does from his job to installing our new DVD player. Peter is driven by a need to do things correctly.
-Peter is a good father. He's more than that, he's completely in love with Bella. If nothing else existed, if I was the most hideous wife of the planet, Peter would stay just to save Bella from having her parents split up. He'd walk through fire for her to have a good day, let alone a good life.
All of a sudden, the fear in me is replaced with how lucky I am to have Peter. How blessed Bella and I are. All of a sudden the suspicion in me that Peter doesn't have my best interests at heart is driven away by the obvious fact that he does. Because I know Peter.
I'm not good at this when it comes to God. Very likely because I don't know him as well as I should. Someone told me once that every time you screw up, every fear and worry you have all boils down to one of two misconceptions about who God is. You either believe he isn't big, or he isn't good. I believe he can't or won't come through for me. Both are pride. One says that I understand the concept of 'good' better than God does, and the other says that God is too small to be able to help, and so therefore I must figure it out myself. Because I'm so much better and keeping my life in control. It's laughable when you boil it down but it takes place on a daily level in some form or another with me, often it's both. God is way up there in Heaven (small) and not concerned with the little goings on of my day to day life (mean). I think God is small and mean. Nice. And here I thought I was such a good Christian.
I am concerned with every little thing Bella does. Today she said "duck" perfectly clearly. It used to sound like "dut" and I knew what she meant. Today it was perfect and I was so proud. Not only am I concerned with every incredible thing she does, I think everyone else should be. I live in a constant state of, "look at her! Isn't she amazing?! Is that not the most beautiful and intelligent little thing you've ever seen?!" I love how much she needs us. I love being everything to her. It makes me feel amazing.
Last night, when it was bedtime, we did our routine. Medicine, "Mama, shake it? Shake, shake, shake!" She loves to shake that bottle. Find a clean cup, fill with milk, start warming. "Bunny?" she asks. I find the bunny half under the couch. Clean diaper "Pants! Bella, don't touch," she warns herself while I clean her up. Then it's into her sleepy sack. "Night night toes? Mmm-wah toes?" she asks sweetly. I let her kiss her toes. Then I must do it. Then it's grab the cup I forgot in the kitchen, and settle into the chair in the dark and rock her. Two seconds later she'd emptied her cup. "More cup Mama? More milk?" She points at her mouth to make sure I got the point. I lay her in her crib and promise to come back with milk. She sits quietly. When I get back though, she says, "Mama, no. Cup, bunny, bed." And my heart falls through the floor. She doesn't want me to rock her. She wants to go to sleep. She's tired and wants to stretch out in her bed. And although I spend all my time teaching her how smart she is, how good at doing every little thing, this hurts me. I know that it's a really great thing, developmentally. I've read enough to know that she feels secure enough to fall asleep by herself. This is progress. This is a step in the right direction, but it hurts me. Because I love her. Because I miss her when she sleeps, even still, and I don't care that it's stupid and makes me one of 'those moms'. I kissed her goodnight on the head, prayed for her, and told her I loved her. "Ove you.." she whispered. This might be the only thing that let me walk out of that room instead of forcing her back to baby-dom. I was crying, but I left. She went straight to sleep and the loneliness here was a little overwhelming. I may have asked Peter to come home early from work. I wanted my baby back. I wanted her to need me, and the funniest part is, when she woke up a few hours later and I was already in bed, I grinned from ear to ear when I heard her little voice say "Mama?" and start to cry.
I wonder how much of our feelings for our children mirror God's feelings for us. He refers to himself as a father so many times in the bible, you'd think he was trying to make a point. I wonder if he does this? Waits for us to cry and then rejoices to himself that the proper order has been restored. We need our Daddy to save us. I wonder if our posturing at independence hurts him? It must. It must hurt him over and over again as we tell him that regardless of what he says, we're still afraid. That no matter how many times he's shown us his love, we still don't totally get it. I wonder how often the distance between Heaven and Earth frustrates him. I know I hate it. I know there's so much I want to say to him face to face. So much I want to ask. I wonder if he feels the same? I wonder why I don't think of it in these terms more often. It makes sense.
There's a story about a little girl and her father crossing a bridge. The father is worried for his little girl, and tells her to hold very tightly to his hand. She looks at him and says, "No Daddy. You hold my hand"
"What's the difference?" he asks.
"Well, if something happens and I get frightened, I might let go of your hand. But if I ask you to hold my hand, I know that no matter what happens, you'll never let go."
Oh to have faith like that. To be able to admit to God and to myself that I get afraid, and when I do, I make choices that could endanger myself. Oh to know my father well enough to not have it need to look like such a lofty spiritual goal as trust. It's just fact. If something happens, I know you'd never drop me. And here I thought that God would be all upset if I said that I was going to let go. Here I thought that real faith was being able to hold his hand when all it is is just knowing that he must hold mine in order to make it. It's just a simple understanding of my own flawed and frustrating behavior, and to choose to not place myself in a situation where I'd need to rely on myself. Huh. Maybe he's not waiting for us to say we'd never let go as much as he's waiting for us to say that we just know that he wont.
I know that the opposite of love is not hate: it's apathy. The opposite of trust is not independence, as I so often seem to think and act out. The antithesis of trust is fear. I am almost always afraid in one form or another. But how afraid would I be if I simply looked at facts, and was grateful for what I found. It's a very simple truth, that if you just start counting your blessings, all of a sudden you find that you're just not afraid anymore.
Let's say, for the sake of a point, that I become paralyzed with the fear that Peter will cheat on me. He'll find a younger, prettier, easier woman to spend his time with and he'll leave Bella and I. I can take my mind down this road until I'm a total mess. Once I'm already afraid, Peter's words that he loves me and would never do that are useless to me. I'm terrified that he's lying. Telling me he isn't doesn't soothe me. But lets say I take a moment and very clearly list to myself what I know about Peter, what I can take in with my senses.
-Peter tells me he loves me all the time. He spontaneously says it at times when I feel unlovable.
-Peter is a man of integrity. He is a man who has never once broken his word to me in even the smallest thing.
-Peter is a perfectionist. Peter is someone who tries his best at literally everything he does from his job to installing our new DVD player. Peter is driven by a need to do things correctly.
-Peter is a good father. He's more than that, he's completely in love with Bella. If nothing else existed, if I was the most hideous wife of the planet, Peter would stay just to save Bella from having her parents split up. He'd walk through fire for her to have a good day, let alone a good life.
All of a sudden, the fear in me is replaced with how lucky I am to have Peter. How blessed Bella and I are. All of a sudden the suspicion in me that Peter doesn't have my best interests at heart is driven away by the obvious fact that he does. Because I know Peter.
I'm not good at this when it comes to God. Very likely because I don't know him as well as I should. Someone told me once that every time you screw up, every fear and worry you have all boils down to one of two misconceptions about who God is. You either believe he isn't big, or he isn't good. I believe he can't or won't come through for me. Both are pride. One says that I understand the concept of 'good' better than God does, and the other says that God is too small to be able to help, and so therefore I must figure it out myself. Because I'm so much better and keeping my life in control. It's laughable when you boil it down but it takes place on a daily level in some form or another with me, often it's both. God is way up there in Heaven (small) and not concerned with the little goings on of my day to day life (mean). I think God is small and mean. Nice. And here I thought I was such a good Christian.
I am concerned with every little thing Bella does. Today she said "duck" perfectly clearly. It used to sound like "dut" and I knew what she meant. Today it was perfect and I was so proud. Not only am I concerned with every incredible thing she does, I think everyone else should be. I live in a constant state of, "look at her! Isn't she amazing?! Is that not the most beautiful and intelligent little thing you've ever seen?!" I love how much she needs us. I love being everything to her. It makes me feel amazing.
Last night, when it was bedtime, we did our routine. Medicine, "Mama, shake it? Shake, shake, shake!" She loves to shake that bottle. Find a clean cup, fill with milk, start warming. "Bunny?" she asks. I find the bunny half under the couch. Clean diaper "Pants! Bella, don't touch," she warns herself while I clean her up. Then it's into her sleepy sack. "Night night toes? Mmm-wah toes?" she asks sweetly. I let her kiss her toes. Then I must do it. Then it's grab the cup I forgot in the kitchen, and settle into the chair in the dark and rock her. Two seconds later she'd emptied her cup. "More cup Mama? More milk?" She points at her mouth to make sure I got the point. I lay her in her crib and promise to come back with milk. She sits quietly. When I get back though, she says, "Mama, no. Cup, bunny, bed." And my heart falls through the floor. She doesn't want me to rock her. She wants to go to sleep. She's tired and wants to stretch out in her bed. And although I spend all my time teaching her how smart she is, how good at doing every little thing, this hurts me. I know that it's a really great thing, developmentally. I've read enough to know that she feels secure enough to fall asleep by herself. This is progress. This is a step in the right direction, but it hurts me. Because I love her. Because I miss her when she sleeps, even still, and I don't care that it's stupid and makes me one of 'those moms'. I kissed her goodnight on the head, prayed for her, and told her I loved her. "Ove you.." she whispered. This might be the only thing that let me walk out of that room instead of forcing her back to baby-dom. I was crying, but I left. She went straight to sleep and the loneliness here was a little overwhelming. I may have asked Peter to come home early from work. I wanted my baby back. I wanted her to need me, and the funniest part is, when she woke up a few hours later and I was already in bed, I grinned from ear to ear when I heard her little voice say "Mama?" and start to cry.
I wonder how much of our feelings for our children mirror God's feelings for us. He refers to himself as a father so many times in the bible, you'd think he was trying to make a point. I wonder if he does this? Waits for us to cry and then rejoices to himself that the proper order has been restored. We need our Daddy to save us. I wonder if our posturing at independence hurts him? It must. It must hurt him over and over again as we tell him that regardless of what he says, we're still afraid. That no matter how many times he's shown us his love, we still don't totally get it. I wonder how often the distance between Heaven and Earth frustrates him. I know I hate it. I know there's so much I want to say to him face to face. So much I want to ask. I wonder if he feels the same? I wonder why I don't think of it in these terms more often. It makes sense.
There's a story about a little girl and her father crossing a bridge. The father is worried for his little girl, and tells her to hold very tightly to his hand. She looks at him and says, "No Daddy. You hold my hand"
"What's the difference?" he asks.
"Well, if something happens and I get frightened, I might let go of your hand. But if I ask you to hold my hand, I know that no matter what happens, you'll never let go."
Oh to have faith like that. To be able to admit to God and to myself that I get afraid, and when I do, I make choices that could endanger myself. Oh to know my father well enough to not have it need to look like such a lofty spiritual goal as trust. It's just fact. If something happens, I know you'd never drop me. And here I thought that God would be all upset if I said that I was going to let go. Here I thought that real faith was being able to hold his hand when all it is is just knowing that he must hold mine in order to make it. It's just a simple understanding of my own flawed and frustrating behavior, and to choose to not place myself in a situation where I'd need to rely on myself. Huh. Maybe he's not waiting for us to say we'd never let go as much as he's waiting for us to say that we just know that he wont.
9:35 AM
Wow! Mel, you totally got that I think. What an amazing post! Now we just need to praying for that to really get into our hearts, into our spirit and soul, so we grasp it and can move forward into Trust. I've always (well, for a long time) had trust issues, and it's kept me from having really real relationships with others, with God, sometimes even myself. Great writing, great revelation! Just last week I read this post, since someone had linked to it on Facebook: http://preparingtheway.net/2011/06/20/daddy-save-me/ and it started me thinking... and now your post. Wow. Amen Mellie! One day I hope to walk in trust.