Puny Plates
The dreary weather suits my mood. After a breezy trip to South Carolina for a family wedding on the beach (which I highly recommend), I’m resettling into a routine. With two weeks of school left, an upcoming writers conference, a manuscript to scrutinize, and a dent in my rubber bumper from an unrepentant backer-outer, I’m feeling like a carnie plate-spinner. My puny plates of concern don’t merit God’s involvement, yet he invites me to give them over to Him.
As a child, I looked at God as a special-event coordinator, available for wars, surgery, or freaky noises at night. Sundays were for ratting out all the despicable deeds I’d committed in the prior six days. He wasn’t to be bothered with my speech before the assembly, the spooky kid at school, or the unease I felt with a decision at hand.
I realize now that I feared God without really understanding what He meant by “the fear of God is the beginning of wisdom”. I feared what He might do to me, but I didn’t fully grasp His omniscience, His holy nature. Now I better understand God’s love and patience with me, and I recognize my utter loss without Him. In every detail of my life I want to feel His holy presence, whether I’m driving a car, washing my laundry, or trying to hit a note-without-hope in the shower.
My only real fear is disappointing the God whose tender love buoys my every breath.