Emmaus Walk / Debra Tomaselli

Each day is filled with ‘now’ moments in holiness

As I flipped a pancake, I heard the toddler shriek as a chair scraped across the dining room floor. Frantic, I snapped my attention to what was happening across the room.

There, between a dining room chair and the toddler, stood Teddy, my 6-year-old grandson. The toddler—his sister, Lucy—was crying. I raced across the room, picked Lucy up and confirmed that she was unhurt.

Then I looked at Teddy. He looked up, his big brown eyes filled with care and concern.

“What happened?” I asked.

“She was standing in the chair,” (oh my gosh, I had no idea) “and I picked her up and put her on the floor,” Teddy said.

He stared at me, his big round eyes unblinking and focused. I grimaced at the thought of Lucy standing on the chair, unbeknownst to me.

Then, as if anticipating my concerns, Teddy added, “She likes to do that at our house too.”

And then, maybe to explain his actions, he offered his practical rationale: “But it’s not safe.”

Of course, right, Teddy, you did the right thing.

Thank you. Thank God. We escaped a possible calamity.

I sighed a sigh of relief.

Lucy didn’t see it that way.

She wanted to climb again.

I picked her up and removed her from the situation.

Amid shrieks, flailing arms and kicking feet, I kissed Lucy’s chubby cheeks, smoothed her hair and removed her from harm. I kept her close to me until breakfast was ready and we could all sit together in the dining room to enjoy the meal.

Despite the protests, her misery was short-lived. Moments later, Lucy turned her attention to a myriad of brightly colored blocks I gave her to play with.

And I can’t help but see our resemblance.

After all, here I am, decades older than my young granddaughter. And yet, at times, I act just like her.

Like her, I’m fighting my current circumstances. I’m in a hard season, and I’m kicking my feet. I’m blind to the bigger picture. I only see what I see, what I want and what I think I need.

I’m failing to admit there’s a loving parent who knows far better than me what is good for my eternal existence. Who knows better how to guide and direct. Who is planning a feast … a banquet … and wants me at that everlasting table.

But it’s going to take a little surrender on my part. And a little trust in the hands that are guiding me there.

I’ll bet, from time to time, you can relate.

So … we can stomp our feet and scream our protests.

Or we can trust. We can relax. We can make it home to that heavenly banquet.

I can only hope.

We can only hope.

Lord, help us.
 

(Debra Tomaselli writes from Altamonte Springs, Fla. She can be reached at dtomaselli@cfl.rr.com.) †