A little past SuckerVille

The plane jerked again as the wind pushed us suddenly downward. Behind me and to my right, a little girl screeched in pure terror. Glancing back I saw wide glistening blue eyes peering over clenched fists. She rocked and shuddered. Her father had his arms wrapped around the little one trying to comfort her, but her whimpers were spiraling up into an all out wail. Across the aisle, the girl’s mother leaned forward whispering, “Do you want a sucker honey?” The little one’s eyes flicked right and then she buried her face in her lap. Rolling his eyes, Dad muttered, “I think we’re a little past SuckerVille.”

What a phrase for immature, childish fear. How often do we find ourselves “A little past SuckerVille?” We ball up our fists and squeal in displeasure. God tries to comfort us, but we won’t listen. We insist on following our fear out into the dry wilderness. Once there God generally leaves us alone until we’re ready to come back. Like any good Father, he realizes that an emotionally strung out child has to calm down before they can be reasoned with.

Part of this has to do with our blatant miss-interpretation of our role with God. He is our Father, and like any good parent, He is more concerned with getting us to our destination than our happiness. When we ignore this and let our emotions run away with us, he waits until we calm down. When we are calm, He pulls us along on our journey. Sometimes we even think to ask and He reveals why we couldn’t have the thing we wanted. Then there are the times when He says, “Wait, you will understand someday.”

The other day my family was out walking when it began raining. I mean it, as we say in the south, “Came up a bad cloud.” The storm quickly deteriorated from spring sprinkle to a frog strangling deluge complete with crashing thunder and blinding lightning. My son, seven years old, and thus wise enough to doubt his father, was worrying. I asked him what had him concerned.

“I’m afraid of dying.” He cried with all the melodrama he could muster.

I smiled and replied, “What exactly are you afraid of?”

Gripping his throat he shouted, “Running out of oxygen.” He worried and fretted all the way to the car.

Now my daughter, 18 months and a bit of an adventurer, reacted quite differently. I was intentionally whooping and laughing, and she got the picture. So long as we kept Mom close, she giggled and shouted all the way to the car.

Both were in the same storm, but saw it in a very different way. My son’s big memory was “It was so wet I couldn’t see out of one eye.” I imagine my daughter will giggle next time she gets caught in the rain.

I want to shout and giggle through life’s storms. People may think I’m mad, but I think I will have quite a bit more fun shouting than worrying. What’s more, I hope it will keep me on this side of SuckerVille, where I am focused on God instead of my fear.