disappointed
She sits, curled on my bed, the polish on her toes slightly chipped, and she reads, absently pushing an errant blonde wisp back from her forehead.
I am struck by her beauty, the beauty of having her near. The reading has absorbed her, first her Bible, then the devotional book we gave her for her birthday. She seeks, arching her back, stretching to grow. And I feel cocooned by so much grace, that He lets me watch as He reshapes her heart.
She looks so content, the picture of peace, but I can’t help but think of yesterday. Not even a full day has passed since this—my baby looking away from me, tears blurring her view, summoning the courage to pick up the shattered remains of her expectations.
Something she has anticipated all day will have to wait a few more. We deliver the news reluctantly, knowing she will struggle. She sits in Kevin’s lap, and instantly the tears come, and she turns her face into her father’s chest.
“Zoe.”
When I say her name, my voice gently dipping, she cries harder. Her shoulders shake with grief, and I sigh, exasperation exiting audibly with my breath.
“Zoe, you can’t cry every time things don’t go the way you had hoped,” I tell her, breathing into the words, feeling helpless. The last week has offered her more than one opportunity to practice handling disappointment.
And so it goes as the Spirit refines, I think, watching her. And so it goes.
First the Sunday when she wants to play with friends and everyone else has gone to the pool, and Kevin and I need to be home; now the school night when she wants to stay up a little later, and we know that everyone needs to log a few more hours of sleep. She does not understand all the details of our decisions, does not need to.
“But, I’ve been expecting to get to all day,” she wails, and I sit looking at her, trying to just breathe, wondering when she will understand that things are so much more complicated than whether or not I want to see her happy. I remember my dad saying this to me about God, his eyes a burning fire, but gentle. God cares about more than your happiness.
“Honey, it’s just a few more days. And we’ll make it special and fun and worth the wait.” I say this thinking of popcorn picnic-style on the living room floor, a soft blanket smoothed beneath folded legs, knees bobbing to music in the half-light of the darkened room, the TV flicker a strobe.
She shakes her head, folding in tighter. “But it’s just so long.”
It does feel long, this waiting past all our dead expectations. Long and empty.
“It’s three days.”
Three days. Hasn’t it always been three? Three days for waiting, for fumbling in the lonely dark, for staring down the red eyes of a sudden, earth-shaking trauma, for burying what’s lost and awaiting resurrected hope. Surely the disciples knew: Three days can be an awfully long time.
She looks at me with bruised eyes, and I feel the depth of her despair. I see the way her disappointment casts the whole day in shadow, all gray. I feel the heavy hopelessness of wait. And I feel what she doesn’t say, the never word etching itself darkly over her heart. I sigh beneath our shared weight, wondering if she can read in my eyes the weary I feel. I have always hated being the cause of disappointment, even when I feel as though wisdom leaves me no better alternative. I want to swallow every hindrance myself, take the full brunt of consequence. I am willing to be the sacrifice, if it means that they will find joy.
But it’s not usually as simple as that. These expectations children carry with them, these plans they hope in, they’re short-sighted. And so it is with my expectations too, the ones over which I plead with God, the ones over which I grieve, shoulders shaking, when things fall apart. Vision lengthens over time, from the blurry baby days, when we only see right in front of our own noses, to a clearer perspective deepened by years and the learning to love others more, to a view that embraces needs besides those most immediate to self.
So, I look into Zoe’s downcast eyes, and I open up the world.
“Honey, we’ve all gotten to bed too late the last several evenings. I love spending time with you all, but too little sleep makes Riley more prone to seizures. And I don’t want more seizures. …And this past weekend, Daddy rode his bike over a hundred miles. His body needs to recover. …And I am training for a marathon, and without enough rest, I could injure myself. …And you and Adam need to take care of your bodies too.”
“And you have school,” Kevin says, punctuating all my pauses. “It’s not good to stay up too late on a school night.”
“Rest is important,” I say to her, knowing that I have struggled to embrace this truth myself, that sometimes I want to scream I feel so desperate just to throw all caution and schedules and discipline aside. “I understand. I do. But it’s just three days.”
She slides off of Kevin’s lap, unsatisfied. “I’m going to go brush my teeth,” she says, defeated, her voice tinged with the faint black shadow of anger. And as she walks up the stairs, I look at Kevin, saying paragraphs with my eyes, telling him I’m too tired for all this drama, asking him why meeting everyone’s needs has to feel so weighty and hard.
Together, we go upstairs to help Adam brush his teeth, to pray with them, to pull back sheets and press kisses on foreheads. I stop in my room, sitting a moment on the bed, the too much pressing me down.
And in moments, she sits beside me, looking at her knees, telling me she’s sorry. “I shouldn’t have done that, made such a big deal,” she says, briefly catching my eyes, letting go, burying herself deep. “I’m…really sorry.”
I reach for her, pulling her close, running my thumb over the smooth, soft curve of her cheek.
“You’ve got to find a better way to handle it when things fall apart, when nothing goes quite like you expect.” We are quiet, she and I, two hearts thumping, two hearts weary.
“I know,” she says faintly, pressing her cheek to my chest.
“See, life is that way. Nothing happens just the way we expect. Things will happen to stir up your plans. Sometimes you’ll not receive things you thought you needed, and then something better will come, something you’d never have imagined. Sometimes, the thing that disappoints all your looking forward will be the best thing that’s ever happened to you, but you’ll not know it….Not if you’re stuck grieving the thing you lost.”
She nods slowly, drinking this in, finally hearing beyond her feelings.
“Do you think Daddy and I expected to have children who have trouble with talking?”
At this, she pulls back, sensing some trust I’m offering, looking to see me pull back my parent-skin and show her the messy heart inside.
“We didn’t. We had much different ideas about what it would be like to be parents. And for a while, we were really, really sad. Things with Riley and Adam just felt hard all the time…and lonely. But God has used your sister and your brother to teach us a thousand things—more—so much we’d never have imagined. They are wonderful, and gifted, and amazing. We love being their parents. We love how they are. But we’d never have been able to see all that if we had stayed where we were, stayed disappointed, stayed focused on things not going as we’d planned. We had to ask God to help us see it all differently.”
This, and she’s shaking her head, absorbing, tracing my face with her eyes. “I need to do that too,” she says slowly, “–ask God.”
This, not even a day ago.
Today, she sits, curled on my bed, seeking. I love this about her, the way she makes choices to grow, the way she knows where to take the things that feel impossible.
She laughs out loud, joy flushing her cheeks, bringing her to life.
“Mom,” she says, meeting my gaze. “Guess what my devotional is about today?” She laughs more, lifting her Kindle. “Wait. Let me read it to you:”
…the thing is, you can never be in complete control. Just when you think you’ve prepared for every possibility, something unexpected pops up and ruins all your plans. Your parents may say no, the weather may cancel the big game, or sickness may stop you from getting out of bed. Control does equal peace—but only when it’s My control. Bring Me all your needs, your hopes and fears, and leave them in My care. Depend on Me to do the planning, and I will give you My Peace (Jesus Calling: 365 Devotions for Kids by Sarah Young).
I laugh with her, walking over to give her a hug.
“Sweet girl, don’t ya just love it—the way God speaks just exactly where you are?”
She looks at me, those blue eyes bright with grace, shining with the knowledge of Love, and says,
“It’s gotta be the coolest thing…ever.”
*~*
For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future (Jeremiah 29:11).
