My sleepy-eyed child walked into the kitchen a few mornings ago and asked for scrambled eggs. I had to let this famished child know I wouldn’t make scrambled eggs because I already had a bacon, apple, and cheddar frittata in the oven—and it would be ready in 15 minutes.
After a little bit of arguing, begging, and crying (none of it on my part), I was informed, “You’re not my real mom. If you were, you’d care about me.”
The whole time, while I’m trying not to laugh, I’m thinking, “Oh good golly, I’m making you bacon! What part of bacon with the eggs don’t you fully grasp?”
The 15 minutes took an eternity—as did the stubborn minutes of pouting before hunger won out. Eventually the child ate and even went back for a second piece.
As I did a little bit of a smug, internal I-told-you-so, the Holy Spirit did his own quiet and gentle Hmm-does-this-remind-you-of-anyone? Hmm . . . maybe it does. How often have I been willing to settle (and even whine about) a proverbial plate of scrambled eggs, while God has a bacon frittata almost ready for me.
At times I have thought that God must not care for me because my plan, which often includes immediate relief, peace, and happiness, doesn’t seem to be his plan, which often includes discipline, refining, and waiting.
I can always look back and testify how God worked in every situation, but in the middle of it? (Like right now as my family is planning to move across the country, change jobs and schools and lives, and settle in a new city?) Well, I forget to trust the words of Isaiah 64:3,4: “For when you did awesome things that we did not expect, you came down, and the mountains trembled before you. Since ancient times no one has heard, no ear has perceived, no eye has seen any God besides you, who acts on behalf of those who wait for him.”
God does awesome things, and he acts on my behalf—in his time. I’m still learning. And so are my kids.
P.S. Before you think I’m making this breakfast because I’m looking for some mom-of-the-year tiara, it’s because one of my children gets headaches from gluten. I’d prefer to have them get their own cereal, but that’s not how things have shaken out in our house.