Feet on the pavement
Driving down the road the other day out of the corner of my eye I see a small child. She was about 2 or 3 years old. She had taken a firm position on the pavement. She squatted down low, nappy almost touching the slabs her chin firmly pressed against her chest her arms held up in the air. It was a protest. I could not hear the dialogue but her position told me enough to make some judgments. Two steps in front of the child is an adult, female. I presume her to be the mother of the protest. The child is asking for something, saying no to something unwilling to cooperate. The mother resists the demands, negotiates with the protestor, summons all her short years of wisdom as mother for this encounter. There will be many to come. Before me I feel is a deeply spiritual event. How often am I the child even with all my years? Feet firmly anchored to the pavement unwilling to move until my demands are listened too or meet? I can’t get down that low without much pain and struggle. But I am challenged to ask myself how much of my life do I spend in useless protest, demanding and negotiation?
Driving down the road the other day out of the corner of my eye I see a small child. She was about 2 or 3 years old. She had taken a firm position on the pavement. She squatted down low, nappy almost touching the slabs her chin firmly pressed against her chest her arms held up in the air. It was a protest. I could not hear the dialogue but her position told me enough to make some judgments. Two steps in front of the child is an adult, female. I presume her to be the mother of the protest. The child is asking for something, saying no to something unwilling to cooperate. The mother resists the demands, negotiates with the protestor, summons all her short years of wisdom as mother for this encounter. There will be many to come. Before me I feel is a deeply spiritual event. How often am I the child even with all my years? Feet firmly anchored to the pavement unwilling to move until my demands are listened too or meet? I can’t get down that low without much pain and struggle. But I am challenged to ask myself how much of my life do I spend in useless protest, demanding and negotiation?
That reminds me of a word picture I heard in church once. The pastor was saying that when we sin we are often like children who have fallen down in a mud puddle. And we thrash around on the ground, in the mud, wailing and crying. God is standing there beside us with his hand stretched out, saying, just take my hand, but we're too busy carrying on. If we will just take his hand, he will help us stand up, brush us off, and walk on with us.
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