#mystory continued…Despite our waywardness and misplaced longings, God is still smitten with us. Even those of us who think we don’t matter. The ones who nobody seems to see. God notices. He cares. You must believe me, God loves you. He does. When we run the other way, He patiently waits for our return. When we fall, He picks us up. When we stumble, He gives a second chance. How do I know? God’s mercy never runs dry. He has an ample supply to dose out on our old, crusty, deep-seated heart wounds.
God tinkers with us to make us into something incredibly beautiful so that we may be perfect and complete, not lacking anything. Not the kind of perfect in a worldly sense where we can do no wrong. Nor the kind of perfect that is tied all up in rule following and behavior modification. No, I’m talking about the kind of perfect that comes from the Father above. Wholeness. Completeness. Transforming. It’s the kind of perfection that only God can do. He takes our unpolished selves and starts rubbing away our imperfections, making us into something glamorous. Molding and making us into something we could never imagine. Shaping us into something better than what we could ever see.
January rolled around, and we were beat up. Exhausted in a whole new way. Walking uncharted territory. My husband received an offer to speak at an international physician conference, and we jumped on the opportunity. Our struggles had taken a toll on our marriage. We could certainly use a get-away. Thankfully, the in-laws graciously agreed to watch the kids.
Fresh, ocean air engulfed us, and we allowed it to soak into our core. A God-wink moment to solidify He was still there. In spite of where our thoughts may have tarried, it was obvious God hadn’t abandoned us and hung us out to dry. I could feel His presence near as the waves came crashing into the shore one after another. The minuteness of the sand slipping between my toes reminded me “God’s got this. He has every detail covered.” He was holding me in His arms, swaying me in the sea.
A pair of slippers came to our hotel room, wrapped up in plastic. I struggled to open them and swiftly, my husband grabbed them from my hands. In gentleman fashion, he grasped them tightly in his hands and clenched the plastic between his teeth to tear off a corner chunk. It was then something went terribly awry. The piece of plastic was inhaled directly into his lungs. He could feel it flutter. With forceful coughing, he tried to work it back out to no avail. Rat farts. That stubborn piece of plastic wasn’t going to budge.
That little piece of stubbornness would stick around for a year and a half. Bouts of pneumonia would ensue. My husband would self-treat himself with antibiotics repetitively. He had times he was the “you should be in the hospital” kind of sick. Doctors are the worse patients. They really are. He knew the only way to get that plastic piece removed involved invasive surgery to go digging for it. He refused. I couldn’t see—but one day God would use that piece of plastic to direct our steps.