Short Stuff

My Daddy

"Mommy!"

Shivers ran down my spine as I raced down the stairs at the speed of light…well, maybe not that fast, but I'm pretty sure I broke the sound barrier. That was not the usual "Mommy! I spilled a pitcher of Kool-aid in the living room!" Or, "Mommy! I want a grilled cheese sandwich with pickles!" This was a pain-filled scream, the type that mothers the world over dread hearing.

I don't know how I knew just where my four-year old was, but I ran immediately to the toy room under the stairs. She had managed to slam all her fingers in her toy cash register's drawer. As I hit the "Cash Out" button to release the drawer, I was struggling not to laugh. Not so much from the hilarity of the situation, though. After the images of impalement and missing appendages that had run through my mind while I was racing to her side, seeing eight little fingers pinched was, well, a relief. 

Weeks later while spending some quiet time with my Father in the car, I was reflecting on how my big things must seem so trivial to the Creator of the entire Universe.  How unimportant all those things that worry me must be to Him…the appointment with a new doctor; my car needing new tires and not having the funds; gas prices (well, I'm pretty sure that the current gas prices worry even HIM!); all those little things that seem so huge in our lives, how tiny when placed in the perspective of watching over billions and billions of souls. But, what about all my pains! The times I've been hurt…the object of hateful gossip; being told I was an "afterthought" to God…after all, Adam was created first and Eve wasn't thought of until Adam needed a helpmate (he probably couldn't find his fig leaf and Eden needed cleaning), therefore, women are "afterthoughts (don't worry, I got over that one!); being rejected by people I loved; and on and on.

"Still, how trivial my pain must be to You," I told Him while driving.

Then I was suddenly reminded of the eight little "boo-boo fingers" I had kissed as I held my little girl on my lap and wiped her tears. Sure, those little pink pinched digits were trivial in comparison to what horrid fates I had conjured in my dash to her side, but because she was hurt and I loved her, I wanted to make her feel better in whatever way I could.

"How much more I love you. You're MY child."

WOW! That "thought" slammed me between the eyes so hard I almost hit the car next to me. Yes, I know it was my Dad speaking to me, because the voice in my head was so loving and gentle, soft and soothing. My eyes filled with tears as I realized that my "stuff" IS important to Him…the Master, Creator, Savior, Lover of the Universe. He does care what goes on in my life, from the tires on my car to that person at church who is talking about me behind my back.

The magnitude of this was just starting to sink in when my thoughts were interrupted by "Mommy, can you sing 'Muffin Man'?" coming from the back seat. 

Smiling, I said, "Sure, baby…Do you know the Muffin Man…"

Thank You, Dear Heavenly Father, for letting us know how much You love us, how important all our "stuff" is to You. You are such an awesome, gracious, loving Savior! 

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Wet Moths

I just took a shower with a bug. No, not my husband—a moth. I think they're called "Millers."  You know the type—ugly, brown, fly around your porch light and dive bomb your guests when they leave your Friday night Bible study.  I didn't mean to take a shower with a moth—I was standing there, minding my own business shampooing when I saw what I thought was a giant locust fly through the shower curtain.  After the appropriate girlish squeal, I realized it was just a poor, defenseless moth, not a crop-devouring plague of Egypt. 

After watching the poor thing flop around and flutter his wet wings in desperation, trying in vain to half fly-half crawl up the side of the tub to dry freedom, I reached down and scooped him up, kind of enjoying the tickling of his wings against my hand (you notice I keep referring to the moth as "he;" perhaps I'm a bit biased, but I don't believe any female of a species would intentionally fly into a "cave" with flowing water splashing about—it's a known fact that females do not like to be splashed, something every male discovers at about age ten). I tossed the moth out of the shower and onto the bathroom floor, watching him flutter his wings in a desperate attempt to dry them. "Silly thing," I thought. I've got eight 60-watt makeup lights in my bathroom (I'm still seeing spots…I just got up to go count them. Seriously). He could very well have flown up near the lights and stayed warm and dry, instead of trying to shower with me.

Resuming my suds quest, I was startled when just mere moments later, the stupid creature flew BACK IN with me! I watched as it dragged its soaking body behind a shampoo bottle, trying to avoid the deluge. It left a powdery trail behind as it crawled. "Oh, my gosh!" And I'm actually speaking to the moth here—out loud—"How many times am I going to have to rescue you?!" 

The thought of the Lord saying the exact same thing to me (well, maybe minus the "Oh, my gosh" part) over and over again in my life came to me. "How many times…" all the financial fiascoes, the failed relationships, the countless times I've opened my big mouth and inserted my not-so-tasty foot…How many times? And, like the moth, I fly straight into the danger again and again, ignoring the wonderful Light that I should be circling. If only I had just looked up, saw the Light, and flown straight to it…my wings would be dry, my body would be warm, and I wouldn't be in danger of drowning. 

I should mention here that the moth got out of the shower and the cat ate him.