The battle lines have been drawn. On one side is a child, small but fierce. Filled with all sorts of opinions on how to live her life—the majority of which are somewhat questionable, and would most probably result in a rather prompt visit to the ER.
On the other side is me— the parent, not so little but equally fierce. Filled with strong and mostly contrasting opinions about how this small human of mine should live her life, and preferably stay alive in the process.
We both fight valiantly, though ultimately I prevail. But I don’t feel much like celebrating— this is not a battle I feel like I’m winning. In fact, increasingly, I feel more like I’m on the losing side.
When will she see? That I’m not the enemy, that I’m not trying to ruin her life. That I truly do know what’s best for her. Why won’t she heed my advice, listen to the wisdom that will keep her safe.
And just like that, it is me who sees. That this small, defiant child is me. Fighting against my heavenly parent and His will for my life. Trying to do things my way, in my time— and suffering the consequences for my lack of wisdom and trust, my short sightedness and my childish pride.
“When will she see?” The Father whispers. “That far from being the enemy, I’m on her side. That instead of trying to ruin her life, I’m trying to save it. That I alone know what’s best for her because I alone created her. That if she would only listen, seek my counsel, and heed my advice, she would thrive, not just survive. Flourish instead of fall.
“As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts” (Isaiah 55:9 NIV).
And so, as the battle continues to rage, I choose to wait. Waiting for her to one day understand that I am on her side. Fighting, not against her, but for her, and with her. Waiting for her flag of surrender to appear over the horizon, and for peace to reign once more.
Until then, I wait. “And so,” whispers the Father, “will I.”
