I brought cookies in to work today, but you can’t have any. I’m mad at just about everyone. No one here at work has pissed me off lately, so they get cookies. Also, if they’re busy eating cookies, they may not notice that I am about three unkind words away from spontaneous combustion.
And these are really good cookies, so I should be safe for a little while.
Vacation Bible School starts tonight. One whole week of learning to love the Lord through skits, gooey crafts, singing, and snacks! What’s not to like? Usually I love VBS week. The kids have a good time and it’s all about making faith FUN.
But it’s all a crock, because faith is not fun. Faith is believing everything will be okay when you can barely breathe. Faith is trusting that you are cared for when you have never felt more alone in your life. Faith is knowing you needn’t be afraid.
I thought I had faith, but it turns out I just enjoyed the snacks.
My father has commented more than once that my expectations of other people are too high. I’ve always maintained that if I don’t expect more than I’m willing to give, myself, I don’t see the problem. But it always has been a problem and apparently this is the lesson I’m slated to learn. Over and over and over. It’s only betrayal if I expected someting different, right? The fault is mine.
So I made cookies. For no particular reason. I thought maybe they’d make me feel better. They didn’t, but then I had cookies to share. And when the kids misbehaved I didn’t leap into the “I make you cookies and this is how you act??” lecture. They had their cookies. I left a container of them in the kitchen at work. I delivered the rest to a friend.
I gave them all away. I’m not expecting anything in return. It’s oddly freeing, in a detached sort of way.
I wish I never expected anything in return.
I wish I never wanted anything.
I wish I was easier to love.
I wish I could grasp the faith I need.