When God Doesn’t Show Up
My knuckles are white I’m gripping the steering wheel so hard, making the tiny red cuts on my winter-chafed hands appear even brighter. I squeeze my car into a parking spot and use the rear-view mirror to double check my puffy eyes. They’ve cleared up enough, I guess. Since I’m thirty minutes early to the dinner meeting, they’ve got time. But I’m consumed with thoughts of my situation, so the tears pool, then spill all over again.
From my vantage point, I can see the front door to the classy restaurant. It wasn’t my first choice. He picked it when I said we needed to talk. The sheer refinement of the building’s exterior makes me feel under-dressed. There’s no way I’m stepping across the threshold until He shows up. Briefly, I wonder what He’ll arrive in. Does God get chauffeured in a limo? Or is He more of a drive-it-yourself kind of God? Maybe He likes a Jeep Wrangler with the top down. Though it’s cold outside. Does cold affect Him?
I snap back to reality as I remember why I want to talk to God in the first place. Panic thickens in my throat until I almost choke on it. What will He say? Will He comfort me? Will He provide what I need? Or just tell me I’m out of luck? Technically, I’m in this nearly-negative-bank-account, impossible-deadline, wish-the-earth-would-swallow-me-up position because of Him.
I realize I am livid.
This is all His fault! How dare He bring me this far in the process and leave me high and dry at the very end? Is this some sort of twisted punishment? I convince myself that it is. In fact, He probably invited me to this place so He could see me humiliated when I have to beg Him to pay for my insanely-expensive dinner. Wrapped up in my rant, I’m startled to see the thirty minutes have long since passed.
Real nice. He doesn’t even have the decency to be on time for me. Minutes tick by as I glare at the front door. Forget this, I seethe. I tumble out of the driver’s seat and slam the car shut. Not caring if I make a scene, I fling the restaurant door open and march inside—intent on finding out if He even bothered to make a reservation. My name is given to the hostess in a crisp staccato as I ignore the stab of my conscience. I’m a little flustered when she instructs me to follow her, but I dismiss it snidely. Well I guess He called ahead. She weaves through the room of finely-dressed tables and patrons and leads me around a corner to an intimate alcove.
Where God is already seated.
My jaw drops and anger dissipates as His napkin falls from His lap in His haste to greet me. And if the warmth of His embrace is any indicator, I feel certain He did not invite me here to watch me beg.