It bewilders me, drives me to an insane fury that overwhelms me. Challenging my authority, pushing my limits, defying my power? How dare she.
I know these tremulous eyelids, this near-imperceptible wobbling of the lips. To any bystander, it seems like a fairly run-of-the-mill routine. But I can see the unfathomable grief and confusion beneath his surface calm, hear the low tiny whimpers bubbling in his chest. In a moment, if I push the wrong button, say the wrong words, ask the wrong thing, he'll crumble, pour down in a waterfall of tears, wail out his pain and sorrow to the very skies.
It bewilders me, pushes me to an angry hurt that overwhelms me. Rejecting my gentleness, slapping away my service, scorning my careful probing? How dare he.
It's only later, much later, when they're tucked safe away in bed, that it hits me in the face.
I know these expressions, recognize these traits, because they are me. To any bystander, I might seem a fairly placid believer who's "keeping the faith" decently well. But in my heart, I know. I know that when my God pushes the "wrong" button, says the "wrong" words, asks the "wrong" thing, I'll flout His rightful authority, I'll rail against His never-ending mercy, I'll shout and scream and stamp my feet at Him.
Yet He is never bewildered, never pushed into surprised hurt or rage. He knows me--knows my purposeful defiance, my irrational emotion, and still, still, He holds out His hands to me . . .
Yet I, when confronted with my very own failings (in child form), fail to show mercy and neglect to have grace and forget to utilize patience.
Somehow, I think that missing those opportunities to be merciful, gracious, patient, means missing much, much more . . .
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