We’re going to Oklahoma for vacation, I began to explain, but by the time I had finished my sentence, Benjamin was out of his seat and headed for his backpack.
Sit down. Finish dinner, we told him, and then we counted to 14 together so he’d understand how many days we’d need to wait.
There will be time to pack your toys.
It worked for the 5-year-old, but the 2-year-old was already asking for help with his shoes so he could get in the car and go see Grandma Marie.
We tried everything we could think of to explain the concept of waiting two weeks, but Colt was inconsolable. He wanted grandma and her Diet Pepsi. He wanted to wave at the trains that run by her house. He wanted to hug his aunts, see the sharks at the aquarium and blow bubbles in the backyard.
And he wanted all of that now.
That’s OK at his age, but it’s not OK that I act the same way with God.
I fuss and whine when I don’t get what I want right away. I complain that the good stuff is taking too long — and I tell that to a God who sees eternity.
I’m ready, I think. But I gloss over the hard work I will need to do to get me where I want to be, the hours of preparation and practice.
I don’t want to wait to put on my shoes.
Maybe that 2-year-old is a lot like his mama, and maybe it’s time for me to grow up.