She forgot to pick me up.
I stood on my pink ballet shoe tip-toes squinting through the rain that ran squiggly rivers down the front lobby window. Panic slowly rising up in my chest as tutus and hair-bows disappeared behind car doors and the carpool line shrunk to zero, zilch. And still she wasn’t there.
She forgot me.
And just as my throat squeezed tight and the tears threatened to spill over, that old silvery-blue Mazda pulled to a stop in front of me. And her brown eyes met mine with a huge smile and exaggerated wave.
I stand on my grown-up tip-toes. Scanning the path I’m on. Searching through confusion. Sorting through my mind. Wondering at the plan.
Where is He?
I wonder if God’s people in the Old Testament felt the same way. Those 400 years between Old Testament and New Testament. I wonder if they thought, “He forgot us!”
But He hadn’t forgotten. He was still working. Matthew 1 shows the genealogy from Abraham to Jesus, including those 400 years! God was moving the whole time, preparing the way for Christ to come.
Just like my mother hadn’t forgotten. Just like she was moving forward through the storm, coming for me at the exact moment I was sure she was a million miles away. He is not still. He has not abandoned. He’s moving. Working towards making His name great. Working for my good and, if you are in Christ, for yours too. Accomplishing HIS perfect plan that was written before the world ever existed.
And just as I start to panic. His kind compassionate eyes meet mine. His warmth and safety engulf me. I remember His covenant to never leave me. His urge for me to trust Him echoes in my ears. His promise to perfect my weak, weak faith rushes to the forefront of my mind.