Not too long ago I had "one of those days." I was feeling pressure
from a writing
deadline. I had company arriving in a couple days and the toilet
was clogged.
I went to the bank, and the trainee teller processing my deposit
had to start over
three times. I swung by the supermarket to pick up a few things
and the lines
were serpentine.
By the time I got home, I was frazzled and sweaty and in a hurry to
get something
on the table for dinner. Deciding on Campbell's Cream of Mushroom
soup, I
grabbed a can opener, cranked open the can, then remembered I had
forgotten to
buy milk at the store. Nix the soup idea.
Setting the can aside, I went to plan B, which was leftover baked
beans. I grabbed
the Tupperware container from the fridge, popped the seal, took a
look and
groaned. My husband isn't a picky eater, but even HE won't eat
baked beans that
look like caterpillars.
Really frustrated now, I decided on a menu that promised to be as
foolproof as it is
nutrition-free: hot dogs and potato chips. Retrieving a brand new
bag of chips from
the cupboard, I grabbed the cellophane and gave a hearty pull. The
bag didn't open.
I tried again. Nothing happened. I took a breath, doubled my
muscle, and gave the
bag a hearty wrestle. With a loud pop, the cellophane suddenly
gave way,
ripping wide from top to bottom. Chips flew sky high. I was left
holding the bag, and
it was empty. It was the final straw.
I let out a blood-curdling scream.
"I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE!"
My husband heard my unorthodox cry for help. Within minutes he was
standing at
the doorway to the kitchen, where he surveyed the damage: an opened
can of
soup, melting groceries, moldy baked beans, and one quivering wife
standing ankle
deep in potato chips. My husband did the most helpful thing he
could think of
at the moment.
He took a flying leap, landing flat-footed in the pile of chips.
And then he began to
stomp and dance and twirl, grinding those chips into my linoleum in
the process!
I stared.
I fumed.
Pretty soon I was working to stifle a smile.
Eventually, I had to laugh.
And finally, I decided to join him. I too, took a leap onto the
chips. And then I
danced.
Now, I'll be the first to admit that my husband's response wasn't
the one I was
looking for. But the truth is, it was exactly what I needed. I
didn't need a cleanup
crew as much as I needed an attitude adjustment, and the laughter
from that rather
funky moment provided just that.
So now I have a question for you, and it's simply this:
Has God ever stomped on your chips?
I know that in my life, there have been plenty of times when I've
gotten myself into
frustrating situations and I've cried out for help, all the while
hoping God would
show up with a celestial broom and clean up the mess.
What often happens instead is that God dances on my chips,
answering my prayer
in a completely different manner than I had expected, but in the
manner that is
best for me after all.
Sometimes I can see right away that God's response was the best one
after all.
Sometimes I have to wait weeks or months before I begin to
understand how and
why God answered a particular prayer the way he did. v
There are even some situations that, years later, I'm still trying
to understand. I
figure God will fill me in sooner or later, either this side of
Heaven or beyond.
Do I trust Him?
Even when He's answering my prayers in a way that is completely
different from
my expectations?
Even when He's dancing and stomping instead of sweeping and
mopping?
Can I embrace what He's offering?
Can I let His joy adjust my attitude?
Am I going to stand on the sidelines and sulk, or am I willing to
learn the steps of
the dance He's dancing with my needs in mind?
I'll be honest with you: Sometimes I sulk.
Sometimes I dance.
I'm working on doing more dancing and less sulking.
I guess the older I get the more I realize that He really does know
what He's doing.
He loves me and I can trust Him.
Even when the chips are down.
--Author Unknown.
Selected from God@Work newsletter. God@Work is a ministry of St Mark's United Methodist Church, 8550 Pioneers Blvd., Lincoln Nebraska 68520 U.S.A.
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