The children knew their father was driving home that night. We drove through the swirling snow and thought of him as he drove through that very same storm.
He was coming several hours from the north which meant what was melting on the pavement in front of our car was freezing on the road before his.
“Can we pray for Daddy?” asked my 6 year old in the back-seat.
“That’s a wonderful idea! Would you please lead us?” I responded, giving myself a quick pat on the back that all that work of “living our faith” was showing a bit of fruit.
“Dear God, please watch over Daddy as he comes home tonight. Keep him safe.”
“Dear God,” piped up the 8 year old, not to be out-done by his little sister,” please keep Daddy safe and I offer up all my sufferings of the past few days for him. Thank you, Jesus.”
I chuckled as I thought back on the days of misery our family had endured at the hands of that same 8 year old as he battled that cold he was so bravely offering now.
Yet his prayer still moved my heart…
I became sober in the next moment remembering how ungracefully I too had suffered when the Lord sent trials my way.
How I’ve prayed “Oh, Lord, make me a saint!”
Yet when that fiery furnace through which the gold of my soul is refined comes, my unsettled soul wrestles with God.
My hands clench, not willing to recognize even this cross as gift. I cannot open their grasp to take hold what the Lord offers.
Then over time and through the grace of God, I lean into the trial and He grants me His peace and light.
I can see the eternal light at the end of this dark tunnel of worldly troubles and I can offer up that trial and my suffering for His glory.
I berate myself for my spiritual immaturity. Why must I always tussle with God before I can accept His cross? How I have wasted my sufferings!
Yet I am God’s child. He is my Father. If my imperfect heart can be moved by my son’s offering of ungraceful suffering, how can my Father’s perfect heart of love not be moved by mine?
