Can't Find the Pause Button

Today’s remote controls are ironically OUT of control. 

 

A single remote can manage the many functions of not just a single unit but a multiplicity of devices. Some can even additionally control room lighting. With so many functions and complexities, it can be difficult to actually locate the desired button. Thus, my preference is for the simple remote—the one that can easily be kinesthetically memorized. I can pause my show with remote-feel, similar to the hand as a PB&J is to mouth-feel—unmistakably identifiable. This simplicity affords me a more remarkable viewing experience.

 

I cannot seem to locate the pause button for life. Its remote control has apparently become so absurdly and unfortunately overly-complex that Pause has been lost (and maybe forgotten). The multitudinous functions of life crowd and hamper my control of it, and before long, events are coming and going like an Idahoan raincloud.

 

I now long for a simpler control—one that affords me a more remarkable viewing experience. I see Torin growing so quickly, and there are times that life's pause button ought to be pushed:

 

 

 

If nothing else, I’d like to at least take life off Fast Forward.

Life's Slivers

Have you ever thought or even audibly asked God why He allows you to suffer? In a time of dismay, have you ever asked, “Why are you doing this to me?”

I have.

Why would an all-loving and simultaneously all-powerful god allow any human to suffer heart-wrenching ordeals or misfortune?

After an experience yesterday, I shall never again venture to ask.

Slivers. Irritating. Stubborn. Removal of such is as unpleasant as dumping a clingy girlfriend—it’s rarely a trouble-free task. The worst sliver of my life was removed a couple days ago… from my 19-month old Pooks. With pin in hand and baby on lap, I pinned his left hand while Brooke wrestled his right. The sliver itself removed without too much argument, but the struggle was wildly torturous.

And I can only imagine Torin’s thoughts in his time of dismay:  “Why are you doing this to me?”

There is certainly no probability in Torin fathoming the purpose of the pain. I wonder if he thought it was punishment. And despite his pleading and cries of “ouchy,” (he typically says “ouch,” but as if to add emphasis, he kept saying “ouchy”) the suffering persisted until the sliver was betrayed and betterment achieved. After the raucous had passed, he was in fact a better Torin—whether knowing it or not. And despite the pain his father had apparently caused, my little Pooks turned and embraced me.

I suppose a similar scene may transpire in meeting my Father. In spite of all the incomprehensible slivers experienced during this mortal sojourn, the climatic reckoning could likely be composed of something gloriously simple:  a hug.

We will all one day know the purpose of the pain. Until then, we are left wondering and (hopefully) trusting.