Follow the Hand

Before becoming a parent of a Lily (a third, feisty, strong-willed child) I fully admit that I wondered a lot about parenting stories I had heard through the years:  stories of children on leashes in theme parks (are we raising dogs or children?), stories of children climbing out of high chairs and grocery carts (control your child, thank you very much), and then the stories of children wandering off (puhlease.  How hard is it to keep an eye on a three year old?)

This kind of thinking was pre-Lily kind of thinking.

Because pre-Lily, I couldn’t imagine a child wandering off.  Because pre-Lily, there was a lot I hadn’t experienced.

For example, I hadn’t experienced a child trying to paint her nails on her own.  Over the carpet.  In the living room.

I hadn’t, for example, experienced a toddler completely destroying her room.  Didn’t know toddlers did this sort of thing, pre-Lily.

And I most certainly had not experienced a toddler wandering off.  I just assumed these children folk always stayed with their parents.

While visiting with a friend when my youngest was three, I decided to show-off my new sense of freedom because of my increasingly independent toddler.  The reality of all three of my children being school-age was not too far off at the time; it was a beautiful reality.   I could taste the freedom that those seven childless hours were going to give me.  I could envision it, I dreamt about it, I talked about it, and any signs of growing independence in my toddler meant we were one step closer to this reality.

I was thrilled when I felt like Lily could handle the fenced-in back yard by herself.  So, while coffee was sipped over sweet conversation with a friend, out Lily went to the back.

After talking for a while, my friend asked if I wanted to check on my daughter.  I gave her a sympathetic and somewhat patronizing smile as I looked at her sweet baby…they were so, so far from my unparalleled freedom.

No need.  The back yard is fenced in, so Lily is totally fine.   Spoken like a true idiot.

When it was actually time to call in my youngest, there was no munchkin response in return.  Just silence.  I remember my friend looking at me in an unnerving way.  I brushed off her concern explaining Lily was just disobedient.

Because that was more heartening.  Good grief.

It didn’t take long to notice the open latch on the gate, and as soon as I saw it, my personality went from  calm, life is easy, be jealous of my freedom, to…unravelled.  With zero regard for the guest standing next to me, I began running through my neighborhood like a mad woman, shouting out Lily’s name at the top of my lungs.

During these moments of panic, I remember thinking about my dad.  He had a certain whistle tune, and whenever we were in a crowded situation, or when he was trying to find us around the church building long after everyone had gone home, he’d whistle his tune, and when we heard it, we came.

In my irrational state, I chastised myself for not knowing how to whistle.  If I had a whistle tune, she’d come.  But alas, I never learned how to whistle.  And so, with nothing but air blowing out of my pursed lips and tears streaming down my face, I ran up and down the sidewalks of our neighborhood.

And then I spotted her.  Holding the hands of two blessed strangers, I spotted her.  My legs couldn’t run fast enough to that child;  I scooped her up, hugged and kissed her, and reminded her she always needed to stay with me.  I loosened my grip and asked her why in the world she left the house.

Because I was looking for a more fun back yard.  

Duh.

I profusely thanked the couple who spotted my toddler walking in and out of neighbor’s backyards, and I tried to offer up an explanation to this dear couple as to how my toddler actually got away, but with the progression of each sentence, I sounded more and more incoherent.  I mumbled together sentences that sounded right in my head but actually sounded ridiculous when said out-loud:

I’m just trying to allow her to have more independence these days.  What?  How old is she?  Oh, three.  But a very independent three-year old.  It’s like three going on thirteen.  Ha. 

Ha?  Sometimes I feel as though  it would be helpful to have a little person on my shoulder that flicks me when it’s just time to stop talking.

And my conversation with Lily’s rescuers got even better when we discovered we had mutual friends.  I smiled politely while thinking to myself:  For the love of embarrassing moments, can we please not share this story?  And then it got even better when we discovered they knew my pastor-father quite well, and…how cool is this…we even worshipped at the same church for a time, and they remembered me as a child.  Just awesome.  I started sweating while mental pictures of my behavior as a pastor’s kid flashed in front of me.  I suppose it was just apropos that the gentleman ended our fun little get-together with:  “Well, now I understand where your three-year old gets it from!  Ha!”

Ha.  He needed the little shoulder person too.

But I showed him all the grace because, well, he saved my child, and so I gratefully offered a sweaty hug and a hearty-thank you.

I had the same tendency to wander as a child.  When there wasn’t someone directly in front of me to follow, I wandered.  I was the preverbal child-dog that demonstrated total attention and submission until….squirrel!  And then I’d be off and running, following nothing but my own curiosity.  For this very reason, my dad would physically lead his kids through crowds using his infamous whistle but also by holding his hand straight in the air.

I remember being easily drawn by the fascination of people watching while walking through crowds.  It didn’t take me long to forget to follow dad, but then the whistle brought me to back to reality, and the arm straight in the air helped me spot my leader.  Of course, when we became teenagers, the hand raising for several minutes while walking through crowds wasn’t the coolest thing in the world, and, of course, we would make our feelings known.  And then dad would give prompt attention to our feelings and sympathize with us by lowering his hand in order to not embarrass his teenage girls.

No way.  My best guess is that dad sensed the same glory I now sense when I have the opportunity to embarrass my teenagers (which, incidentally, is strangely easy to do).  Yes, his hand stayed high, and every-once-in-a-while, while the hand was still up, he’d call out to his teenagers when we’d start lagging behind and would use his endearing nick-name for us:

” Come on, Mongrels!  Follow me.”  Maybe dad needed a little person on his shoulder too.

But we followed.  Without that hand to look to, I would have wandered many times over as a child.

Unfortunately, I have the same tendency in adulthood.  It’s not a physical wandering (though admittedly, I still get a little distracted with people watching), but I tend to wander spiritually.  I’m tired.  It’s been a long year for our family, many of you have trudged through similar seasons, and my desire to follow Jesus seems to wane during these times.   I’ve wondered how it is that I can so easily loose sight of the nail-pierced hand that so faithfully leads me through the valleys and the peaks.

But sometimes it’s just easy to get caught up in following everything else but Jesus.  I’ve followed grief straight into the ground many times this year.  I’ve clenched it tight and have been unwilling to loosen our grip and let Jesus take the cup of tears that resulted from my hovering leader.  But, oh, the peace that is found when my tears are shed in the arms of Jesus.  Come to ME, all you who are heavy laden, and I will give you rest (Matthew 11).  

I’ve followed anger pretty confidently too.  In a crazy political season, I ran after this beast many times, allowing others thoughts and opinions to feed my frustration.  And I even trudged into anger’s torrents at the injustice felt both on a personal level and in the current social climate.  It doesn’t take long to realize that following this monster produces physical, spiritual, and emotional problems, and it tends to plant this little seed called bitterness, which grows out of control if it’s not pulled quickly.   Praise God for the peace found in believing that Jesus Reigns over all of it, and my anger can change none of it.   If the Lord is GOD, then follow HIM (1 Kings 18)

And I’ve followed control and perfectionism with a fierce step.  As appealing as these can be, they lead straight down the path to anxiety.  I keep going there, for some strange reason; there’s something that drives me when I can control my surroundings – when things go just as I had planned.  But when my body doesn’t respond like I think it should, when my kids don’t react in the way I imagined, or when difficult news comes along, I crumble.   When I follow the false assumption that I can somehow control my next step, I’ve lost sight of the One who is leading, and I crumble.  In following the need to control, I’ve forgotten that there is a Savior who has perfectly paved the way for me.  There is such peace in listening to His voice in the midst of what I deem as chaos; He looses control of nothing.  He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out…he goes before them, and the sheep follow him, for they know his voice (John 10). 

And when Jesus tells us, “Come, follow me,” he also reminds us that he will come after His sheep, whether storms or sun-filled days.  This thanksgiving, I’m deeply grateful for this truth. I’m thankful beyond measure for grace that is given in abundance because we can’t (and won’t) follow perfectly.  I will continue to wander after these idols, apart from His grace, but with each wrong turn, Jesus will not leave but will continue to lead with His nail-pierced hand held high for me to see.  And with each fall, with each stumble chasing after all that fails, Jesus will not forsake his beloved but will scoop them up with arms that are abundantly more loving than our own, and He will graciously whisper again and again:  Follow me.