Back when my now gargantuan kids were mere tots, my husband and I were constantly carrying them, particularly when we went anywhere that required a good line of sight to enjoy the full experience of the event. Mass was often the event, and in the record-breaking heat of Texas summers, we would emerge from the church drenched and irritated. Such is the special suffering of parents with many littles. (grin).
Throughout their childhood, my kiddos insisted on being able to see. Whether it was what I was making in the kitchen, or what my husband was working on in the garage, or even if one of their siblings was creating a masterpiece, they wanted to see—to experience this act of creating, of joy, of a shared grace. It’s so natural, so instinctual, but also can be quite maddening to a mama who is just trying to get dinner in the oven before the nightly meltdown occurs.
It makes me wonder if God shares in that irritation when we start hopping up and down as he works in our lives, demanding to “see” what he is doing. Amidst the trials and tribulations of parenthood, I have, very often, (ok, almost all of the time!), questioned God and his ways, asking to be shown the blueprint, or at least a glimpse of the end result? Please, Lord? I know you are all power, all love, all mercy, but can you prove to me just one more time that you will truly handle this particular trial for me?
How little my faith is, compared to that of the blind man, Bartimaeus! He sat on the roadside, crying out to Christ, certain that Christ would heal him, certain of his power and might—just so very sure that his savior would make him whole. How often are we that sure? How often do we loudly proclaim the promised victory and leap up wholeheartedly when he calls to us? More often than not, when Christ lovingly calls to me and hands over yet another cross, another suffering, I wail and cry out in confusion and anguish. I do not trust. And I cannot imagine how it all will result in a more complete joy, more wholesome faith, more beautiful love. My lack of faith inhibits my sight.
I have so much to learn from dear Bartimaeus. Even when others rebuked him to be silent, he cried out all the louder. May we be humble enough to receive this lesson of childlike faith—to ask to see, yes, but with a confidence in God’s love and providence, and so experience the joy of healing and hearing our Savior say to us: Go your way, your faith has saved you (Mk. 10:52).
This is so beautiful, Megan. What a great reflection– remembering the impatience (and excitement) of our children wanting to see at all times as a touchpoint for understanding our own neediness in this regard. Lord, increase my faith so that I may see (YOU) the good, true, and beautiful in my midst.