My knuckles are white I’m gripping the steering wheel so hard, and it makes the tiny red cuts on my winter-chafed hands appear even brighter. I squeeze my car into a parking spot and use the rearview mirror to double check my puffy eyes. They’ve cleared up enough, I guess. Since I’m thirty minutes early to the dinner meeting, they’ve got time. But I’m consumed with thoughts of my situation, so the tears pool, then spill all over again.
From my vantage point, I can see the front door to the classy restaurant. It wasn’t my first choice. He picked it when I said we needed to talk. The sheer refinement of the building’s exterior makes me feel underdressed. There’s no way I’m stepping across the threshold until He shows up. Briefly, I wonder what He’ll arrive in. Does God get chauffeured in a limo? Or is He more of a drive-it-yourself kind of God? Maybe He likes a Jeep Wrangler with the top down. Though it is cold outside. Does cold affect Him?
I realize I am livid.
This is all His fault! How dare He bring me this far in the process and leave me high and dry at the very end? Is this some sort of twisted punishment? I convince myself that it is. In fact, He probably invited me to this place so He could see me humiliated when I have to beg Him to pay for my insanely-expensive dinner. Wrapped up in my rant, I’m startled to see the thirty minutes have long since passed.
Real nice. He doesn’t even have the decency to be on time for me. Minutes tick by as I glare at the front door. Forget this, I seethe. I tumble out of the driver’s seat and slam the car shut. Not caring if I make a scene, I fling the restaurant door open and march inside—intent on finding out if He even bothered to make a reservation. My name is given to the hostess in a crisp staccato as I ignore the stab of my conscience. I’m a little flustered when she instructs me to follow her, but I dismiss it snidely. Well I guess He called ahead. She weaves through the room of finely-dressed tables and patrons and leads me around a corner to an intimate alcove.
Where God is already seated.
My jaw drops and anger dissipates as His napkin falls from His lap in His haste to greet me. And if the warmth of His embrace is any indicator, I feel certain He did not invite me here to watch me beg.
Erin: It’s easy to feel like God has abandoned us when things don’t go the way we had planned. Beth’s inner dialogue is a conversation I’ve had with God on more than one occasion, and I imagine most people can say the same. Yet the thing we often forget is that God is always with us. He doesn’t go anywhere. He’s simply waiting – waiting for us to realize we can’t live this life on our own. Waiting for us to let go of our need to control everything that ever happens in our little world. Waiting for us to surrender. Waiting.
Whatever you’re facing today, know that God has shown up. In fact, He never left. Yet He won’t force Himself on anyone. It’s your move. Are you to going to show up, or are you going to continue to make Him wait?
*Beth’s book Let Me Fall is an excellent book I encourage everyone to read. If you leave a comment on today’s blog by 11:00 PM on Wednesday, April 10th, your name will be entered into a drawing to receive an autographed copy of Beth’s book.
Let Me Fall is the love story between God and His dimwitted daughter. I’m the dimwit in case you were wondering.
As a grown woman, it pains me to admit that the catalyst for this story was my obsession with Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight saga, and the despair immediately following my reading it. If my despair were merely of the lighthearted, “oh darn I chipped a nail” variety, you wouldn’t be reading this book description. But it wasn’t, and you are. As in most tales of woe, I hit rock-bottom, which meant all my nails got chipped. Fearing the savage state of my cuticles as well as my heart, I finally called out to Father God for help. Spoiler Alert: He showed up with a spiritual defibrillator.
Let Me Fall is where my literal world figuratively collides with God as He shows me more of who I am and who He is. My story isn’t a formula for falling in love with God. But I would be thrilled if it is a catalyst for others to do the same.
BETH PENSINGER is an awkward, semi-colon abusing nobody who smiles too much. She is the author of four—make that four and a half—journals and untold scores of napkin-notes. She lives near Myrtle Beach, SC with her husband, dog, and human-hating chameleon. Visit with her at www.bethpensinger.com, where she blogs about dirty microwaves, infertility, and the fine qualities of Faramir of Gondor.