You're Not The Boss of Me

I remember thinking when the boys were really little that I couldn't wait for the day when they were older and had a healthy respect for my authority.

Parental innocence is darling, isn't it?

It wasn't long ago that I went toe to toe with Nathan over an issue and he looked me right in the eye and declared that I was not the boss of him.  It was all I could do not to laugh and then run straight for the phone to call my mom to let her know that yes, indeed, it was payback time.

Growing up I was strong willed and defiant.  I don't think I had many normal conversations with my parents because it didn't matter what they said, I knew they were wrong.  About everything.  They had very high hopes that I would take my incredible and well practiced talent for arguing and become a lawyer.

I would have so rocked a pencil skirt.

I didn't like being told "no" and it infuriated me when my Dad would remain so calm while I yelled and carried on.  I can't even mention the word "Algebra" and he goes pale remembering those horrid study sessions where I took out all my mathematical angst on him.

There was the time I ran away because I didn't want to do my chores.  I actually climbed out my window and made it as far as the front door before I took my big bad self back inside.  I even remember the fake fur coat I was wearing.  It was gray.  And I think it might have possibly been made out of some sort of material that would have instantly combusted anywhere near an open flame.

Or the time I thought selling emergency panic buttons to elderly people was going to make me my first million.  I was in my early 20's and told my parents to get ready for retirement because I was fixing to make it big.  They were worried.  They warned.  They tried to be logical.  I would have none of it because it was what I wanted and no one was going to tell me otherwise.

I clearly wasn't the pleasant, compliant, meek person that I am today.
(let's pause while Scot regains his composure)

Recently I have been on my knees about a lot of issues.  More than normal.  Gut wrenching, tear my hair out, hide under the covers kind of stuff.  Stuff about me, my family and some very dear friends that are having everything pulled out from under them.

Honestly, I feel like God is moving very slowly or not at all.  I want to pitch a royal fit.  Or better yet, run away in a synthetic fur coat.  He is not doing things the way I want them to be done.

"You're not the boss of me!"

How badly I have wanted to tell Him that.  Maybe even yell it.  It is so very tempting to just take matters into my own hands.  I'll rant and rave and lose all self-control because it makes me feel better.  Manipulate situations so it turns out the way I want it to.  I'll let loose on some anger issues I've been having.  I'll walk away from women's ministry.  I'll do whatever I want to do.  I, I, I....me, me, me.

And when I am finally quiet enough for His still, small voice to get through the madness in my head, I can hear Him tell me that He is moving.  He does see.  He does care.  He does love.  He does listen.  He does speak.  He does know everything.

This relationship between God and myself is not one that was forced upon me.  It is one that I chose.  That I still choose.  It means I don't get to walk away just because things aren't going the way I want them to.  It means I press in harder and get to know Him better and take comfort in his sovereignty. It means that He is giving me time to strengthen my faith.  A faith that wains when life is too easy.

Then I wait.  And I honor Him by not losing all control and walking away.  I ask for a glimpse, however small, into the work that He is doing in and around me and I wait.

I looked at Nathan that day and told him that yes, I was the boss of him.  Not because I want to make his life miserable, but because I love him and sometimes a bigger perspective trumps his pride.  I told him that he needed to trust me.

Hmmm......maybe parents aren't so stupid after all.