I was maybe seven or eight years old and we had gone to stay with a close friend of my mothers who had just separated from her husband. Of these things, I had no understanding; it was a different world then where separation and divorce were a foreign language that most of us did not speak. We stayed in a motel with that friend and her daughter who was my age. For me, it was exciting, staying in a motel with a kidney-shaped pool. While I liked her daughter, she was also very boring; she did not want to go swimming, so I couldn't either. Then, I was told, we were going to a berry farm. I could think of nothing more mind-numbing than a berry farm where I would watch endless jars of jam being filled and labeled. I whined and moaned about yet another one of the tedious adventures that adults seemed to find so exciting. I complained and pleaded all the way to this place, youthfully insensitive to the feelings of the little family with us. Until we got to the berry farm; Knotts Berry Farm. In trying to keep it a surprise for me, my mother had not told me that the days of canning jellies and jams were long gone replaced by ferris wheels and rollercoasters. I never could have imagined it.
Even though it is a distant, it is a powerful reminder that although God has not directly told me where He is taking me, it is not necessarily the droll place I expect as I file in prayer complaint after complaint on my way there; it may well be a better place than I ever could imagine.
No comments:
Post a Comment