My eight-year-old son sits next to the bathtub, his left foot resting on the edge, sobbing, “I hate my life.” We’re on day four of Splinter Removal Avoidance. Four days of walking only on his heel, trying to summon courage. ⠀ ⠀ On the edge of the tub, my husband, wearing a camping headlamp to shine light on the wound, whispers, “Trust me.” Yet, every attempt to free the splinter is met with a wiggling foot. Every. Time. ⠀ ⠀ I want to yell FOR GOODNESS SAKE, HOLD YOUR FOOT STILL! We can’t remove it if we can’t even touch it! Please, for the love of all that is good and holy, SIT STILL!⠀ ⠀ When we plead for him to trust us, he resists, protecting himself. ⠀ ⠀ I get it. ⠀ ⠀ How many times have I just kept moving to avoid pain? How often have I tried to ignore something that shouldn’t be there? Because even though I say I trust God, and I want his help and healing, I find myself wiggling just the same. ⠀ ⠀ As I watch my husband with our son, I get a glimpse of how my wiggling must look to my Father, who is just waiting for me to settle in front of Him. To hold still. To trust Him with my pain. To be still and know (Psalm 46:10).⠀ ⠀ But the being still is hard if you don’t know. ⠀ ⠀ The root of our third grader’s avoidance, and my own avoidance, is that we don’t understand how deeply we can trust the one who removes our splinters. ⠀ ⠀ Thus, as we prepare for Splinter Removal Round #68, headlamp in place, I hear for my own heart, too, a reminder that God doesn’t give us the knowing first. Read the rest over at Joyful Life Magazine!
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