I sit here in my car before Wednesday night services, listening to birds sing from the pines, and We Are Messengers sing from the speakers. I type with one hand, because I broke the other wrist in two places this weekend.
Fun times at Casa de Sipps.
All weekend long, I waited for the miraculous revelation. That point where God flung himself out of heaven to speak from the burning bush and reveal this pivotal moment’s purpose.
But it didn’t come.
Let me backtrack to tell you that in my dayjob, I’m an engineer. When things go wrong – and they will – it’s my job to put on the cape, find the problem, and fix the problem, never to hear from said problem again. We call it root cause analysis. Don’t just look at the symptoms, but correct the issue down deep in its roots. Good engineers can fix the problem. Great engineers fix and eliminate it at the source.
Because it’s what I do all day, I can’t help it when personal problems arise and my super-girl day persona whips out that cape to play God.
Like when my son is awaiting his qualification results to see if his learning disabilities qualify him for special education services. Or when the neighborhood kids are fussing and my first inclination is to make them all come inside and scrub the floors. Or when I’ve broken a wrist after just becoming well after an 8-month-long disc injury that followed a four-month-long foot injury.
I want to find the cause and fix it.
And so I sat on my couch this weekend, surrounded by emoji pillows, a Lego comforter, and the dog. People with two hands, let’s pretend for a second that you only have one. Now. Pull your yoga pants up. Without getting a breast cramp from bending the wrong way. Open that can of Rotel. Go ahead, put the bra on with the four hooks on it. I double dog dare you. Peel that banana. Swat the mosquito that landed on your good arm with the arm you’re not allowed to move. Aaaaand take the long curly hair that goes all the way down your back, and attempt to get it off your neck so it doesn’t get stuck in your arm sling velcro tab by putting it in a rubber band. Up high. Got all that?
Go on with your bad self.
What this looks like in our household is this: You got those yoga pants up. On one side. Then you endure the jeers and sneers as you waddle out to your family to help pull up the left side. You give up on the Rotel. Someone else is hooking that bra for you. You peeled the banana with your teeth. And your 11-year-old, whose favorite hairdo is a side ponytail, has wrangled your Ronald McDonald mop of hair into her best side ponytail. Your cast doesn’t fit through the arm hole of your work shirt, so now you’re grabbing life by the horns and wearing your hubby’s three-sizes-too-big shirt (because hallelujah, y’all work at the same place.)
So you go to work, finally mastering getting those pants up on your own, sporting a finger-to-elbow cast, shirt 3 sizes too big, and rocking a side ponytail like YOU ARE A FIVE YEAR OLD WEARING YOUR MIDDLE-SCHOOL BROTHER’S HAND ME DOWNS.
Everything on your arm is itchy.
And so you ask tell God,
Alright! Lemme have it! I’m ready for this lesson. Tell me what it is, let’s fix it, and move the wagon train back on the main road.
You wait three whole days for Jehovah Rush-a to fix you, fix it, and give you the moral of the story like you are His own Little Golden Book.
But Jehovah Rush-a does not come. He doesn’t answer your beck and call and He doesn’t listen when you say you’re ready for that lesson so you can fix the “wrong” thing.
Rest assured when I tell you that silence from God doesn’t mean he’s ignoring you. It may just mean His purpose in your trial hasn’t been fulfilled yet.
In the past week, my heart has gone from “Hurry up, God,” to “Okay, I’ll wait,” to “In your perfect timing.” For the girl who does everything on her own, at the very least I’ve been forced to slow down and even ask for help when even a slower pace can’t get the job done.
I’m reminded that His will isn’t just the right thing, but also at the right time.
I’m reminded that little eyes are watching how much or if I complain, watching as I learn to wait, and watching as I curse or praise God when things don’t go my way.
And I’m reminded that trusting in God means we may never see why something has happened, but because we trust in the one who does know AND we know He works all things out for our eventual good, that’s really all we need to stand for the day.
(Feel free to remind me of this the next time I’m shaving my underarms one-handed and trying really hard not to grumble in the process.)
Don’t worry, I’ll keep you posted…