Trust is important.
And I can say with pretty strong certainty that when I was younger, my sisters did not trust me. But let me be clear, this dis-trust didn't begin on day one of their younger sister existence; rather, it's something that grew over time. I'm not entirely sure why?
Perhaps it had something to do with the parties I would promise them....if they went up to the kitchen and made me a snack with some lemonade.
If you do it, I'll give you the biggest party ever. And it will be in my room. The fact that it was in my room was significant because, of course, my little twerps, I mean sisters, were banned from my room.
And so, they'd do it. Bless them. They'd actually do it. Oh, the naivety! You'd think after the fifth or sixth time that they'd find a sign posted on my door claiming that the party was canceled due to: rain, a sick owner, too many deflated balloons, baby dolls needing my help, that they'd stop fetching treats for me. Eventually, though, my little servants caught on, and I actually had to get a snack for myself. The nerve.
Or, maybe their lack of trust had to do with our special beauty parlor times: "I'll make you so beautiful!" I'd tell them. And then I'd turn them into clowns with funny make up, or I'd cut off one of their long pigtails.
Yes, that happened. I cut the pig tail off at the top of my sister's head. It was pretty awful (ly funny). I just remember my mom screaming, and I also remember trying to tell her, "It was only one mom!" It was bad, no doubt, but I secretly wish my parents would have taken a picture. How is there no evidence that this ever happened? Yes, beauty parlor ended abruptly and my sister's never trusted me with make up again. Like, ever.
But really, I think the lack of trust happened when we played school. I was usually the teacher and gave them plenty of assignments to keep them busy on the Saturday mornings when we'd go over to play at our school/church while my dad worked upstairs.
There are times when I wonder how it was that dad so readily unlocked any door in the school that the three of us misfits asked him to unlock? What was he thinking?
But then, I remember how long we would play school. I was a strict teacher and my students were not allowed to go anywhere unless I dismissed them. For heaven's sake, dad got in so many hours of quiet study time while my mom had quiet time at home....on a Saturday. Yes, folks, this is why he so readily opened every door. We had full access to the classrooms, the gym closet, and, of course, the school office. Parents will trade just about any amount of possible calamity for even a brief time of silence. Am I right?
So, the office was a significant door for dad to open because when I wasn't the teacher, I was the principal. And sometimes I was both; those were the best days. As the teacher I would threaten my sisters with the principal's office if they misbehaved. The problem for my youngest sister is that she has a conscience the size of Texas.
And her conscience would show up at pretend school!
"Be quiet, Erin. The teacher's talking." Yep, Bek, the teacher was talking (sometimes I wonder why they didn't just count to three and take me down. They probably could have),
And then, on one particular day, Bekah raised her hand:
"Um, Mrs. (don't remember my teacher name; probably something like 'Mrs. Awesome'), what actually happens when someone gets sent to the principal's office?"
I loved the question. And so we took a field trip down to the principal's office so I could educate my young pupils. Once we entered the office, I pointed to a door that was locked. It was a door that we had asked dad several times to open, It was almost like we could hear the creepy Halloween music each time he said, "No."
So, I pointed slowly and dramatically to the door and told my believing younger sister that kids who were sent to the principal's office went into that room and had to sit in an electric chair. And then they were electrocuted.
I have never tried to defend myself when certain words are used to describe my childhood self: trouble maker, strong-willed, juvenile delinquent (that one was given to me at age three by my dear grandmother), and the list goes on. And let me assure you, there is pay back when the Good Lord gives us children of our own.
The stories I told my sister's were never a problem, I didn't think, until one particular school day.
On this particular day, our entire school was practicing for a Christmas musical. Johnny (I have no idea who the poor soul really was) started acting up, and so the principal came in, grabbed his shoulder and said, "You're coming with me."
All I remember is complete silence except for one little voice in the back screaming hysterically: "No, no, no! You can't take Johnny! You can't electrocute him! He'll die!" I was waiting for the whole school to start chanting, "Let Johnny live! Let Johnny live!" but then I realized we were in reality. And in reality, there were no electric chairs in the principal's office. Unfortunately, I had to let my little sister into this reality, and unfortunately, I lost her trust for a long....long time.
As I've grown and matured, and yes that is slowly but surely happening (although I still laugh to myself when I think about Erin with one pigtail), I've come to understand how important it is to trust someone. I think this is a harder concept for some than others; especially those who struggle with what I call "post traumatic older sister syndrome."
In reality, I've struggled with trust through my life. It's been especially difficult for me to trust what I can't see, feel, and touch. Throughout Jr. High especially, I struggled with understanding how it is that I'm supposed to trust in a God that I can't see.
My son's teacher emailed us a few days ago to let us know that he's asking for proof of Jesus' existence. I know that he's not questioning his faith, he just has a lot of questions. And I get it! I felt the same way when I was his age; I wanted something....anything.... that I could grab onto in order to know that He is real and true. Although, I have to admit that my son is proving to be a much smarter kid than I ever was. While I was wishing I could merely see Jesus, he's asking for the DNA evidence from the Shroud of Turin (I have to admit I haven't a clue what and where one would go about finding this Shroud).
I told my son just a few days ago that we won't always find every answer we're looking for. We won't always find the exact scientific evidence that we need to say to unbelieving friend, "See!
He's real!" With tears in my eyes, I said to him, Jrod, at some point you just have to trust Jesus. You have to have faith that He is there and that He loves you.
The words were so simple as they rolled off my tongue, but they were so profound to my own doubting heart in that moment. And this is what living in Grace is all about, isn't it? I doubt, and yet Jesus does not forsake me because of it. I question, and yet Jesus does not turn His back to me. I get angry, and yet He never leaves my side.
In preparation for a difficult week ahead, which includes moving my frail mom to a care center, a dear friend sent me this from the Story Book Bible for children:
How it happened they didn't know, but they knew God's power had struck their hearts ablaze - and Jesus himself was coming to live inside them.
They had seen Jesus go away, but now he was closer than he had ever been - inside their hearts. And this time nothing could ever separate them. Jesus would always be there. With them. Loving them. Whispering the promise that would get rid of the poison and the terrible lie and sickness in their hearts. God's wonderful promise to them: 'You are my child. And I love you.'
I wept over these words written for children. My stubborn and doubtful heart needed a child-like reminder that Jesus is near. And I remember this is true. His whisper was in my ear when I dropped off my oldest at her first day of kindergarten: She is mine, and I love her.
His whisper was evident when I kissed my dad good-bye: You will see him again. And I know it will be loud enough for me to embrace when we give my mom the news that we will be transferring her to the room where she will spend the rest of her days here on this earth: I love her and I care her more than you ever could.
I cry out more often than not, I believe, help my unbelief! And it's then that I know Jesus is real. He's the only one who can whisper the promises that rid me of the terrible lies and remind me that He is closer than I could ever imagine. He's in my heart. And so, I can trust.
