a few weeks ago, a lovely woman named June gave me a bit of motherly wisdom that i didn't entirely enjoy but very much needed to come to terms with. she said we grow. and as a parent releases a child bit by bit, so does God release us. we learn from him, he trusts us more and more and becomes less directive and more co-operative. he walks with me. i think i told her that i didn't want to grow up, i wanted him to just tell me what to do, and i think she told me i was being silly. pfff.
i remember learning to ride my bike without training wheels, my pink bike and my pink helmet. my dad ran behind me at first, holding the seat to help me balance, but i looked back to say something to him and he was standing 20 feet behind me watching! smiling even! i was so shocked, and angry and flustered, that i instantly fell over. didn't even try to keep going. i was ticked that he let go without telling me first. i think part of me may have fallen just to prove a point.
those are the best terms i can put to how i felt about God this year: a scraped knee and a slightly irritated girl in a pink helmet standing with arms crossed asking, "what the heck, dad?!"
i don't actually recall how my bike riding experience resolved, why i ever trusted my dad again or why i ever got back on the bike again. i do remember that a few days later i rode down that same street by myself, no training wheels, standing on my seat and then hopping back down to pedal and turn before the cul-de-sac ended. and i do still trust my dad. so apparently i got over it.
i must have let him hug me and bandage my knee and i must have gotten back on the bike...i must have trusted him to show me again how to do it. ideally i would have trusted him the first time, trusted that he knew what he was doing, not freaked out and not fallen. but four things altered that idyllic situation:
1. i did freak out
2. i didn't think what he chose to do was right
3. i didn't keep riding
and 4. i fell.
and then he had to deal with it. deal with a crying little girl, tend to her wounds and coax her back on to the bicycle. it was all a part of me learning. and it was all a part of him being a dad.
those same four things have happened with me and God, with humanity and God: the freak out, the doubt, the stopping dead in mistrust and the falling. only with God my post-fall response was a bit more like, "well apparently i don't know how to ride a bike! and apparently you're fine with letting me fall! so i'm just gonna stand right here until you either explain this whole thing or give me an ice cream!"
but it has been a few days (months) and i'm not standing on my seat coasting down the road. but God is dealing with it. and i'm not demanding the explanation or ice cream anymore. i get it, sort of...he was just being a good dad.
earlier this month i felt God ask me, in light of my recent crossed arms and mistrusting glare, to receive his law again and to renew my covenant with him.
so i asked, "what law are you giving me and what's the covenant?" expecting some new and amazing thing...
but he said,"my law is to love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, mind and strength. love is a choice. choose to love me."
and then he said, "the covenant is my blood. you are washed, cleansed, atoned. it is enough. the blood of Jesus Christ has satisfied my justice, and you are secure in that. let go of everything else, i've already justified you."
he reminded me that our covenant had never changed. millennia ago he held out his hand in covenant and he has never retracted it. he has remained constant. his blood has always covered me. his arms have always embraced me.
it wasn't my dad who stood there and glared at me with mistrust in his eyes. it was me. it was never him who broke covenant with me. it was the other way around.
i read in a book recently, "We have become accustomed to covenanting with our shame rather than our Redeemer." (Unwilling to Concede--Brad Stanley)
that was me. standing beside my wreckage, hurt, staring at a father i did not understand, and didn't understand how to trust. i thought he was a bit of a jerk, to be honest. in hindsight he wasn't a jerk, he didn't let me ride into a brier patch, or traffic. and when i fell he didn't stand at a distance and say, "get up, deal with it," he came to me, and comforted me. and got me back on the bike.
and so did God. even when me and my bike and my knee had an agreement to stick with each other. even when i covenanted with my shame.
my dad didn't put the training wheels back on or tell me not to worry about this bike-riding nonsense. he knew i needed to learn, even if it meant falling.
God didn't baby me either. i wanted him to, of course, but he didn't. he knew i needed to learn.
God is committed to me as a father is committed to a child, committed to seeing me grow and take risks and learn. committed to letting me learn to ask for wisdom and not permission. to seeing me meet challenges, even fail challenges, and learn to stand up again and keep going. to learn lessons and use them to take on the next challenge, and conquer it.
even when i want him to, he doesn't control or dictate. he wants to co-create and co-labour. he wants to walk with me.
i've been learning that God doesn't want to bubble-wrap my life, but he does want to redeem every broken place. (i still kind of want the bubble wrap...)
God is committed to me growing. (dang it.) God is committed to redeeming every broken place. (awesome.)
so i washed off the year in a slightly chilly river, and i committed to his law again, and i took up my side of his covenant again. because training wheels aren't for twenty-three year olds. and God is too good to let me stand still forever.
Bless the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me, bless his holy name!
...forget not all his benefits,
who forgives all your iniquity,
who heals all your diseases,
who redeems your life from the pit,
who crowns you with steadfast love and mercy,
who satisfies you with good
so that your youth is renewed like the eagle's.
...As a Father shows compassion to his children, so the Lord shows compassion to those who fear him. For he knows our frame; he remembers that we are dust.
Psalm 103
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