What day goes by without a grumble? What heavy care passes without us wishing things were different? We say we know better than You. We would have done things differently. We would have life a different way.
Of course, we love You when we judge Your gifts to be
acceptable—when the birds sing outside and we’ve slept enough. But, the rest of
the time we keep You away from who and what we deem are above such reflections: ourselves
and our thoughts.
We have treated You, Almighty God, as our errand boy and
accounted our trials and tribulations as unacceptable, inconvenient, and out of
character with the god we want. Who’s steering this story, we say.
Ditch the Author. We want to tell this story on our own.
***
Once there was a boy named Phaeton. He was the son of an
immortal named Helios, and he was very proud of it. He was so proud and bold
that he asked his father for just one wish. Of course, His father granted it,
but only then did he find that his son’s wish was to drive his father’s chariot,
the sun, for one day.
No one but Helios could drive the chariot, but he had to
keep his promise. He put the golden sunbeams on his son’s head and rubbed divine
oil on his skin, hoping they would help him withstand the brightness and severe
heat of the chariot. As the gates of heaven opened and the horses raced off
into the skies, Helios warned his son to stay on the middle of the path.
Soon, the steeds felt the unskilled hands that held them and
began to veer near the constellations on either side of the path. The bull, the
lion, and the scorpion lashed out at the sun’s chariot. The horses bolted and
Phaeton was unable to control them any longer. The chariot fell near the earth
and scorched the world with its burning rays. Then, the hoses raced too far
away and the earth froze.
Zeus could not allow this destruction to continue, so he
hurled a thunder bolt at the chariot and caused the chariot to fall apart.
Phaeton was thrown from the chariot and died.
***
What is man that You are mindful of him? You crown Your son with glory and honor. You load him with
gift after gift. We do not always see them, we do not always know them, but
each of Your decrees, no matter the form it takes, is a gift.
You give us gifts that are both little and large alike: a
snowflaked yard, a heated home, voices for singing, a day flooded with
sunshine. And you give us gifts we cannot understand: the death of a
grandparent, tears in our child’s eyes, comas, and paper cuts. Yet all comes
from Your hand and all is a perfect gift for Your children. You provide us with
food, clothes, and shelter—what we deem necessities—yet it is not beneath You
to overwhelm us with the trifles. How could we cease to be delighted by the seam-splitting
stockings full of toys on Christmas day? And for us, every day is Christmas.
The dams of heaven are always open and never run dry. Each
gift in its portion and timing is little because it is unnecessary, and yet
large because without everything in its proper place we would cease to be. We try
to sprinkle our speech with Your praises and cheer ourselves by acknowledging a
few of Your fingerprints in the world. Still, Your finite children do not
comprehend the largeness of these gifts, or the praise due to You for them.
But mercy washes us. Though we refuse to see Your hand in
every brushstroke of heaven and earth, You know our childlike frame. How good
it is that this world is not dependent on us. How good it is that we do not
hold the reigns of heaven.
Our pretense of authority does little as we sit in the lap
of our doting Father. He is not a god to let his sons burn the earth in their
chariot runs.
We may burble cries of rebellion and try to grab His crown, but
He laughs at us and promises that someday we’ll grow up to be princes. Someday,
we’ll grow up into all the glory He already has waiting for us.
