I have a confession. I’ve sported a number of labels in my time, everything from "Honey" and "Mommy" to the transitional "Mom" and "Hey you." But one label I’ve never been plastered with is "spontaneous." Why? Because I’m not the "spontaneous type." Not that I dislike surprises. I just like to know about them ahead of time. Way ahead of time. My idea of "spontaneity" is planning Christmas activities in October instead of July. You see, I like plans. Calendars. Schedules. Dates. Reservations. Preferably 10 years in advance.
As my four sons can attest (all too well?), I’m not good with chaos. I like order. Structure. Punctuality. I want to know where I’ve been, where I am, and where I’m going. In triplicate. Submitted yesterday.
Now, don’t get me wrong. Organization, structure, and planning ahead are good and necessary. I don’t think God has anything against calendars or set routines, but when they’re so encased in concrete that I won’t let Him redirect my steps, how "good" are they?
For example, I used to take great pride in my abilities to manage a busy household of five testosterone-impaired child prodigies. E.g., guys. Hey, I can do it all, right? Remember, I’m organized. Even if I wasn’t, you’d be amazed at how a little ingenuity and treachery can even the odds when I’m outnumbered five to one. But I’ve never been fond of pandemonium. I’m easily rankled by interruptions, distractions, and disruptions. Especially when I’m trying to complete a task, concentrate, or finish a sentence. Which isn’t something to crow about in a testosterone-charged environment.
So God saw this "Type A personality" and pronounced her "good." Right?
Wrong.
"Hey Michael, Gabriel" He may have said, "Come here and get a load of this."
Because the flip side of organization and efficiency can be a rigid inflexibility with all the wiggle room of a strait jacket, the teachability of a gnat. Maybe that’s why He gave me four rascally, rambunctious boys. Threw in two cross-country moves in six months. A 70-pound yellow Labrador retriever who thinks she’s a rabbit, a pet gopher snake who thinks she’s a Labrador retriever, and Little League x 4. Add church activities, homeschooling, and an uncertain future. Stir. Serve up a chief residence somewhere between the states of Neurosis and Insanity. Sprinkle in schedule shifts, a derailed plan or two, and a few "unexpected out-of-the-blues" and I can be reduced to a quivering heap of jellied frustration in record time.
What I’m learning, however, is that God is more interested in who I am than in what’s on my calendar. I’ve been thinking about plans from Psalm 119. Verse 105 says:
"Thy word is a lamp to my feet, and a light to my path."
If I penned that Psalm, I’d swap "foot lamp" for "beacon." You know, a lighthouse the size of Alaska illuminating the next continent, 50 years, and beyond. That’s what I’d say. But that’s not what God says. Instead, He says His Word is a lamp unto my feet. He doesn’t illuminate a million miles down the road or light up the next zip code. He gives just enough light for my next step. And asks me to trust Him for the rest of the trip.
That’s a tall order. Especially when the baseball coach calls an extra practice on my one and only night off from Mom’s Taxi Service – and he doesn’t show. When it’s past my bedtime and my preschooler begs for ANOTHER story. When my 11 year-old manages to lose cleats, glove, and self after every baseball game. When my teenager neglects to inform me about his planned rendezvous at the YMCA with a friend. The Y is a 30 minute drive in the opposite direction from the baseball practice for which we are leaving in two minutes. Then there’s the laundry that proliferates by spontaneous generation. Overnight. The "chick flick" that turns up AWOL. The one I looked forward to watching with my husband after the kids conks out.
While we’re on the subject, I have another confession. Sometimes God’s school of flexibility is enough to drive me to drink. (I don’t. I’ll settle for intravenous injections of Hershey’s chocolate.) Why? Because "Type As" like our plans. Calendars. Schedules. Dates. Reservations. But I wonder. How can I catch a divinely designed U-turn, detour, or off-ramp when I’m buried in my DayTimer? Ever notice that sometimes "routine" is another word for a rut?
It occurs to me that the closer I cling to the warm familiarity of my worn routine, the less likely I am to rely on my foot lamp. So I’m learning to plan in pencil. To keep an eraser handy for when He redirects my route. I can’t see 10 years down the road. But I don’t have to. Because verse 89 of Psalm 119 proclaims:
"Forever, O Lord, Thy word is settled in heaven."
His word is settled. Unshakable. Stands firm. So how long can I count on His Lamp to shine? Forever. Just like the One who has His own plans, who placed a reservation for eternity in my name and marked it "paid in full." That’s one reservation that won’t change. I can plan on it, one step at a time.
If you died today, are you absolutely certain that you would go to heaven? You can be! TRUST JESUS NOW
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I had a fun time reading this--very amusing. It's well-written, smooth, good flow, and I appreciated certain descriptive phrases, such as "rigid inflexibility with all the wiggle room of a strait jacket, the teachability of a gnat." You made your point quite imaginatively, which made this article so fun to read.
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