For Christmas, my little guy got some Legos. He's got great fine motor coordination and will sit there and happily build some fun things. But last week, he just couldn't get the pieces to stick together like he wanted. And from happy builder he turned into wailing child.
I, in my infinite wisdom, (ahem) said something along the lines of, "Rowyn baby, I know you worked hard, and I understand that it's frustrating, but you don't have to cry over it. It's only blocks."
My logic did little to help him, gotta say. But it sure resonated with me.
What do you think we look from heaven, toiling away at our lives? Building our castles, our kingdoms, our empires? All our grand plans, all our hard work, all our building and growing and planning? To us, it's everything. It's our world. It's our focus.
|A Lego building at NASA's KSC|
But to God? I can imagine him watching us with a fond smile, just like I like watch Rowyn snap colored blocks together. I can imagine him sitting up a little straighter from time to time, opening his mouth to point out a better way to do something--but we, stubborn children that we are, shake our heads and say, "No. I want to do it myself." I can imagine him sighing when that way doesn't work and our little world we've built comes tumbling down.
And oh, that hurts us. How we cry and rant and rage and sometimes even rail at Him for not making it all better, conveniently forgetting that we refused his guidance because our vision was just so perfect.
That, I think, is when God gathers us into his arms and whispers in our ears, "You don't have to cry over this, baby. I know you worked hard. I know it's frustrating when things don't turn out like they should. But they're only blocks."
Still, we can't quite accept that, can we? Those blocks, those tools, are all we have to work with. And we so wanted to build that thing we imagined...
And so God pats our back and says, "I know. And I want you to build it too. Let's do it together, okay? Let me help you fix this problem right here..."
That might require undoing some of the other work we've done to get at the flaw. And we might cry a little more when we see that. But then he'll fill the hole, line up the pegs, shift it all away from treacherous ground, and hand it back over.
And sometimes, we might greet his aid with a new tantrum and toss it all aside. But most of the time, I hope, we learn from him. We see where we went wrong. And we smile up into our Father's eyes and say, "Thanks, Abba."
|A Lego model of Trafalgar Square, London|
Because even if it's only blocks, he still cares. He still claps when we create a masterpiece, he still feels our pain with us when it doesn't turn out right. He still helps us perfect it, and then pats us on the back in paternal pride. Toiling at it is still something he wants us to do.
But let's remember what it is we're working with. And whose advice we should take while we're building away. He's got a better vantage point up there than we do here at eye-level. And a whole lot more experience with fitting those blocks together.