My daughter hates diaper changes.
Especially when she’s hungry.
If it were up to her, she’d happily sit in her mess, suckling milk until the waste burned holes on her bottom.
Even then—blistered and bleeding—she’d be contentedly milk-drunk, filled up with the one thing she’d wanted in this world.
But that wouldn’t be good for her. So I have a different plan. A plan to give her everything she needs while keeping her whole and unharmed in the process.
A plan that involves changing her diaper before giving her any of her beloved milk.
A plan she’s not always a super big fan of.
And, for the zillionth time today, the familiar sogginess hangs from her bottom, its stench reaching my nose as I cradle her in my arms. How on earth she manages to dirty herself this much, I don’t know.
Because I love her, I pull her from the warm, comfy spot against my chest.
“You might get mad at me for this,” I say as I lie her down.
Sure enough, her face flushes crimson and she struggles to breathe, choked by the intense despair of not getting what she wanted. (Couldn’t she have just one tiny drop of milk?)
The cold, hard table. The separation from Mom. The whole no milk thing.
It’s all too much for her to bear.
Gently, I lift her up, wiping away the filth that would hurt her if left untended, and hope for the day she’ll stop messing herself so much.
“Just wait,” I coo, my voice drowned out by her wailing. “After this, you can enjoy the next thing I have for you.”
The moment the words leave my lips, I hear God promise me the very same thing.
You see, these past few months have been a season of constants. Constant sleeplessness and temper tantrums. Constant stretching in four different directions. Constant exposure of my selfishness, quick temper, and impatience.
This season, I realized, is nothing more than a diaper change.
And boy do I hate diaper changes.
If it were up to me, I’d happily sit in my own selfishness, thinking only of myself until sin burned holes in my soul.
Even then—blistered and bleeding—I’d be contentedly oblivious, filled up with Nutella and On Demand episodes of This Is Us.
But spending my whole life in front of a TV screen stuffing my face with sugar probably wouldn’t be best for my soul. So God’s got a different plan. A plan to give me everything I need while keeping me whole and unharmed in the process.
A plan that involves sanctifying my spirit before giving me Heaven.
A plan I’m not always a super big fan of.
So, instead of blissfully sitting on my couch, I sit uncomfortably in the stinky secretions of my own impatience for the zillionth time today. How on earth I manage to dirty myself this much, I don’t know. The familiar sogginess hangs from me, and I cringe as its stench reaches my nose.
Because God loves me, He pulls me from the warm, comfy spot against His chest.
“You might get mad at me for this,” He says.
Sure enough, my face flushes crimson and I struggle to breathe, choked by the intense despair of having to die to myself repeatedly during this season of life. (Can’t I sit down on the couch for one minute?)
The hard, cold nights. The hazy head and separation from my Father. The cross of motherhood on my shoulders that I’m utterly too clumsy at carrying.
At times, it’s too much to bear.
That’s when God gently lifts me up and wipes away the filth that would hurt me if left untended. The impatience. The quick temper. The urge to make life all about me. One of these days, I hope I’ll stop messing myself so much.
And when that day comes—when God has wiped away my selfishness and replaced it with true charity—then, and only then, will I be able to enjoy the next thing He has for me.