Lost and Found

When I was a little girl, I was obsessed with all things Barbie. I had tons of supplies for her, so I really should never have wanted for any one piece. Nevertheless, I would spend countless moments digging in the box to find that one little high heel that was always in the bottom of all those doll clothes (even though I was sure that searched that one spot probably 4,000 times).  I would get frustrated to tears over that little pink shoe and I remember my mother telling me to put my energy into praying about it. I haven’t thought of that for years now, but I was reminded the other night. I was doing Bible time with Graham and at the end of the story of the olive oil, the boys’ study Bible suggested that we talk about how God can help us with ANYTHING, even the smallest of things. Before I realized it, I was sharing how I would pray over my Barbie box and feel better. I didn’t know it then, but my mother was teaching me to cast my anxieties on Him (1 Peter 5:7). Why has it taken me so long to see what was engrained in me at an early age? And why didn’t I ever go back to thank Momma for teaching me that?

 

My latest struggle has me once again digging in a box for answers. I am afraid that my mother’s life never allowed her to reach her purpose. I hate that word, purpose; the reason why one exists. And I hate the search for it; as if we don’t all have enough on our plates. I felt like something was due to my mother and that this sweeping motion would come to her to make all of her trials and tribulations worthwhile, and in turn she would impart that wisdom to the world (or at least my corner of it). But things never changed and she died. She died and nothing was solved or made better. Where is the sense in that? Lord, I trust you, but can you check that her death wasn’t scheduled for another time? Because I’m pretty sure that she is supposed to see my boys’ Christmas picture this year. And she and I were going to have a big conversation about some really important stuff. And I know that she was supposed to give my dad that Christmas present that we discovered she was working on. This is simply a mistake.

But it’s not. It’s real.

So, my Barbie plan is how I’m getting through right now. I’ve lost something, so I’m praying to God to calm my anxious heart. And, surprisingly, what I end up finding is answers to some of my questions.  Specifically right now about “purpose”. I have discovered that I don’t need to worry about mine because God has decided it and all I have to do is throw my hands up and let him direct me.  I’m a much happier person that way. And as far as my mother’s purpose, I need to remember that if she didn’t use those moments when I was frustrated over doll shoes to teach me to lean closer to Jesus, that I couldn’t share that with my husband and sons.  It seems small, but maybe it’s what’s largely important in this journey I’m on.  Right now I feel a giant pull to create something with what she left me. Part of that is tangible (I’m going to try to start sewing with her machine and left over fabric, so keep your fingers crossed for me) and the other part is untouchable while I try my best to do something substantial with the life she created when she made me.  I’m searching for much more than that missing Barbie piece…but I’m still praying through it because I’m pretty sure that’s the point of all of this.