I Know the Plans
“Come on, girls!” I say in my cheeriest Mary Poppins voice. “Today we’re going to get donuts and take them to the zoo!”
The garage door goes up. The girls go out.
All is going according to plan. And momma is happy.
But the girls don’t stop at the car. They keep going. Down the driveway to the sidewalk. Ne’er to return.
“Come on!” I shout. “In the car!”
Marie looks at me with sureness. Defiance, even. Her jaw is set, her eyes focused. Those tiny brows pinching together ever so slightly. A look that says she knows what she wants. A look her younger sister has adopted and mastered.
A look that drives me absolutely batty.
“I want to stay here,” she says, and suddenly both girls are convinced. They plop their tiny rears down on the driveway.
But I know how much they love donuts. I know how much they love the zoo. The exotic adventures. The endless expanse of asphalt where they can run and play and explore. It’s like the place was made specifically for them.
And, more pressingly, I know how much I love plans. Especially plans that have already been etched into the schedule.
“Girls, get in the car.” At this point, I sound a lot less like everyone’s favorite nanny, and much more like Batman. “Now!”
No one moves a muscle.
It’s a stalemate. A draw.
Their defiance boggles my mind. My heart pumps impatience.
What on earth are they doing? I think to myself. How could they NOT want donuts at the zoo??
“You realize you’re saying no to donuts, right?” I ask.
They nod their small heads with certainty.
“And the zoo? You’re saying no to that, too. You understand?” I add.
Their tiny faces keep bobbing.
But the zoo is a treat for mom, too. I’d rather run around the zoo than sit at home doing the same thing we do every day. Donuts at the zoo is an adventure. A rarity. A special treat.
And I’m not about to give it up.
After all, my daughters learned that stubborn look from their momma—the lady who always thinks she knows what she wants.
So, fifteen minutes later—after I rounded up my wild animals and stuffed them in their car seats—we take off for the zoo.
As I pull away, I wonder what was so special about the driveway. What was so enticing about it all.
Almost instantly, I have my answer. Not because we have a super awesome driveway, but because I often find myself sitting there, claiming a spot on the concrete when God starts calling me into the car.
“C’mon, let’s go,” God says. Not like Batman, but like a loving father.
I look at Him with sureness. Defiance, even. My jaw is set, my eyes focused. My brows pinch together ever so slightly. A look that tells Him I know what I want. A look that says I’m the Plan Maker, not the passenger.
A look my young daughters have adopted and mastered.
My Father knows how much I’ll love what He has in store—after all, He made the plan specifically for me. But unlike angry-impatient-mom, He doesn’t force me into a seat belt. Doesn’t coerce or pressure me into the car.
He simply joins me on the cement and slips an arm around my shoulders. He knows the plans He made for me. He understands full well what I’m choosing to trade in for the sake of doing something safe. Easy. Comfortable.
I, on the other hand, have no idea. He doesn’t tell me His plans. He merely promises that He has some, and that they are good.
They’re an adventure. A rarity. A special treat.
All I have to do is get in the car.