Stay Calm and Don't Move (lessons learned from bees, babies and David)

I am not a fan of flying, stinging insects. Bees, wasps, hornets, yellow jackets (just writing their names gives me chills). I am very much in dislike of them. I'll just go ahead and say I loathe them, and truly it's no stretch to admit that I'm even a bit on the phobic side about them.

Of course, naturally, this means that they have a great affection for me - so much so that I cannot even count the amount of times they have so lovingly sunk their little stingers deep into my flesh (in the most random of places, might I add: back of the neck, foot, thumb, eyelid), even leaving a scar on my shin from one darling bee who crawled up my acid-washed overalls on my bus ride home from school in the 4th grade (guess my "tight roll" just wasn't tight enough).

Since these critters have so clearly declared me as Archnemesis #1, it stands to reason that I find it mighty hard to just "stay calm and don't move," as so many brave souls encourage me to do whenever one of them buzzes near. I really do try. But as soon as my tortured radar picks up that flying stinger, I lose all sense of reason and instantaneously transform into a panicking, screaming, running, flailing spaz. How other people just, "stay calm and don't move," is beyond my comprehension.

Sad thing is, I've found that this instinctive tendency to freak out doesn't just limit itself to my response to flying insects of the stinging variety. I've battled with keeping my perspective on "living in the moment" for most of my life, but never so much since becoming a parent.

I remember lying in my hospital bed after giving birth for the first time, just waiting to feel that overwhelming sense of instant love that everyone said I would for this precious little thing who would soon call me Mom. But as I stared at his tiny, swaddled, sleeping body, it was fear and anxiety that won the battle for my emotional state. In those first few moments, I was flat-out overcome with the mammoth task that now lay before me: I was co-responsible for helping this little baby develop into a decent human being. How in the WORLD does someone as messed up as me even begin to tackle that job? It was all too much to fathom. I felt like someone had dropped a bomb onto my already wiped-out body, and all I wanted to do was sink into that bed and pull the covers over my head.

Thankfully, just as He has done countless times before, God spoke to my panicking heart in that moment and gently reminded me that all I really had to do at that point (and at least for those first few weeks) was just to make sure my baby was: 1) fed and, 2) clean. That, for the time being, would be enough. I could do that! And as his little body grew and he became more complex, God would show me with each stage of growth how to take care of his needs, baby step by baby step. My spirit instantly began to brighten, and I was able to release my grip on a load that was never mine to fully bear and return it to the only One whose strength is limitless. 

Since that first moment of realizing the awesome weight of parenthood, I have inevitably found myself trying to take back that load of "figuring it all out" in other facets of life. When I take my eyes off Christ, I cannot help but begin to fret over the little stingers of life just waiting to pierce my heart. And as I allow my feeble brain to spend too much time on one area of concern for the future, I only find myself deeper and deeper in a state of confusion and worry. Invariably, worry only begets more worry, so I'll naturally start to tack on a whole list of more "what ifs" to my original concern. Even my prayers start to become self-absorbed times of worrying to God, instead of resting in His presence and seeking His will for my life.

So, what's a worrier to do?

David had the answer, when he wrote in Psalm 131:

¹ Lord, my heart is not proud;
      my eyes are not haughty.
   I don’t concern myself with matters too great
      or too awesome for me to grasp.
 ² Instead, I have calmed and quieted myself,
      like a weaned child who no longer cries for its mother’s milk.
      Yes, like a weaned child is my soul within me.

 ³ O Israel, put your hope in the Lord—
      now and always.

Whether we realize it or not, when we worry ourselves over "matters too great or too awesome for me to grasp" (which is most of life), we are really being prideful, putting our hope in our own abilities to plan and scheme and create safety nets. We find ourselves looking under every rock and around every corner, trying desperately to anticipate what might be coming down the pipe next.

Instead, God wants us to just stay calm and not move, "like a weaned child who no longer cries for its mother's milk." We are to become like trusting little children, who rest quietly in our Daddy's lap, knowing that He will provide for all our needs in His perfect timing.

As Beth Moore says, as children of God, nothing in our lives is left to chance. Nothing happens by accident. God is able to take all areas of our lives, even the most painful parts, and work everything out for our good and His glory.

In the end, it really is all good. Who knew!?

And I am beginning to more deeply understand the meaning of and value God places on having a childlike faith. Children wake up each day clueless of the agenda, and yet they have a natural, peaceful trust that their parents will take care of them, regardless of what the day brings. When we seek to walk as they do, we are freed up from the pride and panic that can beat us down - and we can instead simply rest happily in our Daddy's arms, for our hope is in Him alone.

Father, forgive me that I am not more often like a weaned child in your arms, but instead I cry out to you for answers, for clarity, for more light - when what I desperately need more than these things is simple trust that You will show me exactly what I need to know, when I need to know it, 

each baby step of the way.