When Things In Your Life Keep Changing

My daughter loves Rubik’s cubes.

I, on the other hand, hate them with a passion.

I like order. Organization. Things that make sense. So, I don’t mind a Rubik’s cube when each of its sides is a solid, coordinated, catalogued color.

But when my daughter starts to mix everything up, my heart can’t help but cringe. The more I stare, the more my eyes cross. Even if I watch intently, trying with every fiber of my being to understand what’s going on, I can’t.

I just can’t.

Flick, flick, flick.

My daughter’s hands twist and turn, flashing in a blur, shifting rows and columns until the cube is almost unrecognizable. The splotchy, mismatched, totally disorganized sides make my brain hurt.

“How are you SOLVING this?” I ask, my stomach churning as I watch.

She shrugs. “It’s easy.” To her, it makes perfect sense.

Flick, flick, shuffle.

Still, to me, it looks like a jumbled mess. And I don’t like jumbled messes. I fight the urge to glance away. To go do something else until this madness is all over and everything is back in its one sweet, harmonious, organized solution.

My daughter’s focused gaze, however, never wavers from the block in her hands. “You just do this”—flick, flick, flick—”a few times.”

Sure enough, one whole side transforms back into a total, joyful, unblemished white. Inwardly, I sigh, my heart feeling at home for the first time since my daughter started messing the whole thing up.

Then she does that irritating flicking thing again.

Flick, flick. Shuffle. Flick. Flick, flick, flick.

All of a sudden, that beautiful, unblemished white side is completely speckled again.

My heart tumbles inside my chest. “WHAT?!” I shriek. “Why did you do that?!”

“I have to,” my daughter says. “I have to mix it up to be able to fix it.”

The concept boggles my mind, but sure enough—after more shuffles and flicks—the colored tiles magically align and all the sides are blissfully complete again.

Finally, my heart rests as my daughter plops the toy in my hand. I turn it over, examining each beautiful color in turn. White. Red. Blue. Green. Yellow. Orange. Everything’s there. It’s all accounted for.

As surely as my daughter’s hands lodged each tile out of position, they also slid everything back into place.

Now, that’s something I understand. After all, my life is practically its own human-sized Rubik’s cube. A Rubik’s cube that God likes to mix up sometimes, even when he knows I hate those suckers with a passion.

I like order. Organization. Things that make sense. So I love when everything in life fits together, finds its groove, and works out perfectly.

But then, sometimes out of nowhere, God starts to mix things up and my heart can’t help but cringe. The more I try to see what he’s doing, the more my eyes cross. Even if I watch intently, trying with every fiber of my being to understand what’s going on, I can’t.

I just can’t.

And lately, God’s hands have been really busy. They move so fast, sometimes I can’t even see them there at all. His hands twist and turn, flashing in a blur, shifting rows and columns of my life until it is almost unrecognizable. Though I thought I’d been standing on solid ground, suddenly I find the floor underfoot slipping and sliding, shifting and changing, until the landscape around me is completely different and uncomfortably unfamiliar. The splotchy, mismatched, totally disorganized aspects in my life makes my heart hurt.

I pray, begging for him to fix things. To heal things. To make things whole again. But in response, another tile of my life gets dislodged.

“How are you SOLVING this?” I cry, my stomach churning.

He shrugs. To him, it makes perfect sense.

Flick, flick, shuffle.

Still, to me, it looks like a jumbled mess. And I don’t like jumbled messes. I fight the urge to run away. To distract myself somehow until this madness is all over and everything is back in one sweet, harmonious, organized solution.

My Father’s focused gaze, however, never wavers from my little life in his hands. Flick, flick, flick.

Sure enough, one aspect seems to resolve itself, transforming into something flickering with a sweet semblance of normalcy. Inwardly, I sigh, my heart feeling at home for the first time since my Father started messing the whole thing up.

Then he does that irritating flicking thing again.

Flick, flick. Shuffle. Flick. Flick, flick, flick.

All of a sudden, that beautiful, unblemished situation is completely mixed-up again.

My heart tumbles inside my chest. “WHAT?!” I shriek. “Why did you do that?!”

“I have to,” my Father says. “I have to mix it up to be able to fix it.”

The concept boggles my mind, but sure enough—after more shuffles and flicks—all the things magically align and are blissfully complete again.

Finally, my heart rests as he plops my life back into my hands. I turn it over, examining each beautiful aspect in turn. Husband. Kids. Faith. Writing. Exercise. Homeschool. Co-op. Everything’s there. It’s all accounted for.

As surely as my Father’s hands lodged each tile out of position, they also slid everything back into place.