Out of God’s Hands
August 8, 2013 15 Comments
We live in a loft on the second story. To take the girls potty, we go across the parking lot and to the grass where it slopes up. If I put our youngest, Prim, who is just 11 weeks old, down at the bottom of the grass, she gets distracted by the leaves and sticks on the asphalt and doesn’t bother to potty like she should.
So, in order to encourage her, I have to carry her up the slope where there’s plenty of room for pottying.
She woke me up with her pathetic whimpering a half hour before the alarm was supposed to go off this morning. This isn’t new – in fact, this is a major improvement. I got home from work late last night, so it was extra hard to get up with her.
So I walked her down the stairs and across the parking lot, and in good faith, placed her on the curb at the base of the grass slope. Of course, she hopped down onto the street and starts licking a bug.
So I picked her up and began my weak climb up the slope with her in my arms. Now, there’s a specific way to go up, and that’s off to the side where there are rocks to step on. But I didn’t have the energy to take the eight steps out of the way. So I started climbing straight up. And, I guess the grass was wet with dew.
You remember Dopey in Snow White and the Seven Dwarves? That scene where’s he’s wrestling with the soap while the other six are preparing to wash in the tub? And just when he gets ahold of the soap, he marches forward and steps on his robe and the soap pops out of his hands… well, there was a patch of mud that I didn’t see, and as soon as I stepped on it, I fell face-forward and Prim goes *pop* right out of my hands.
I’ll spare the details of her terrified response. It broke my heart. Here she is, completely dependent on me for stable support and safety, and I go and make a stupid mishap like this and put her in harm’s way. (Falls are especially dreadful for dachshunds because of their sensitive backs.) While I was comforting her, I kept reminding myself of all the parents I’ve known who claimed to drop their babies on their heads. But then when I recalled how most of those babies turned out (my high school friends), I freaked out even more.
Then I got to thinking.
We’re in God’s hands every day. And I’m always thinking that He’s messing up or stuffing me in the bottom of His lint-filled robe pocket, or tossing me aside in His low-priority pile.
I mean, do you ever wonder if God is busy managing other galaxies or is easily distracted by shooting stars? Especially while teen girls are being held in torture basements, racism runs rampant, parents remain childless, and puppies get hurt…
Did God drop us? Has He forgotten us?
Sometimes, I wonder. But then, doesn’t that just spell out pride? Like, I know something that God doesn’t? Like I have some sort of insight into the world that He’s unaware of?
Who am I, then, to question God? Who am I to believe the lie that I’ve somehow slipped out of His hands? After all, I’m the one that’s flawed, the one that trips and slips – not Him.
Guess that’s what it means to have faith. After all, Prim still trusted me to carry her up the stairs. Maybe I could learn to do the same with God.