By Rachel Hammond from (in)courage.com
She came running to me, cradling her hand, two brown slivers of wood poking out of her fingertip. One gentle touch made her realize how much it hurt, and she immediately curled her hand tightly closed. We went back to the house and settled her down with an ice cube, Capri Sun, and a kid’s television show before I descended on her finger with a pair of tweezers. It would only take a second to pull them out, I thought optimistically, and we could then move on with our evening.
Half an hour later, we both lay exhausted on the floor, television ignored, drink forgotten, and the splinters still firmly stuck in her little finger. I had tried everything I could think of – cajoling, soothing, bribing (two marshmallows!), threats, and brute force – but the only thing I had ended up with was a sad little girl with eyes red from crying and her hair laying in sweaty chunks across her face as she screamed, “No! No! No!”.
I gave up, wrapped her finger in a Band-Aid, and hugged her tightly before tucking her into bed. Then I sat down on the back porch, rocking and staring out into the trees, as I tried to calm down my adrenaline flushed body and work through the frustration that was still bubbling up inside me.
It would have taken 10 seconds, maybe less, for me to pull out the tiny shards of wood. Over. Done. A pinch, and then the pain would be gone. I was trying to help her and take away her pain, but she just kept kicking and screaming, pushing me away.
But how often do I do the same thing to God?