Get Used to Disappointment
Yesterday was our two-year wedding anniversary. We had a blast celebrating the whole weekend. Medieval dinners, counting the stars at the beach, watching the sunset together, old movies from the library, roses, lemon donuts, candlelight, “old” love letters, biking riding around little beach towns, ice cream cones, kissing on the deserted beach just as a storm rolled in.
It sounds idyllic, and it was—but that’s not because everything went right. David got a headache. We forgot the silverware for our beach picnic and had to trudge a long way back to get it. I brought the wrong sized batteries for the paper lanterns, so they had to stay quietly folded in the basket on our evening outing. And then, after unstrapping the bikes at the beach town of Seaside, David realized he forgot the bike pump.
Yes, there were opportunities to be upset at little things, at circumstances and other people and each other. Amidst all the celebrations, I was tempted to be disappointed and to think that now our fun was ruined. Bad batteries or forgotten tire pumps loomed inordinately large. Until David laughed. And I laughed. After all, we weren’t celebrating two people who have it all together who got married and do it all right. We were celebrating sinners saved by grace, sinners who said “I do,” who revel and glory in the merciful love and abundant grace of God, who is the best maker of all marriages.
Slowly, I am learning to let go of perfect plans and get used to disappointment. Whenever I make a stupid mistake, I am called to thank God for what he has allowed, trust that he knew I would “mess up” and he ordained this in his providence. Because then, suddenly “disappointment” becomes real life—the real friends, the real husband, the real church, the real life God has given me.
C. S. Lewis said, “He [God] is trying to make you humble in order to make this moment possible: trying to take off a lot of silly, ugly, fancy-dress in which we have all got ourselves up and are strutting about like the little idiots we are. I wish I had got a bit further with humility myself: if I had, I could probably tell you more about the relief, the comfort, of taking the fancy-dress off—getting rid of the false self, with all its ‘Look at me’ and ‘Aren’t I a good boy?’ and all its posing and posturing. To get even near it, even for a moment, is like a drink of cold water to a man in a desert.”
God is far from the proud and draws near to the humble. It’s no wonder what so much of what he orchestrates seems designed to pry my fingers off Plan A and teach me to cheerfully, gratefully, eagerly accept Plan B, with all the wonders that accompany that moment. And having a husband who laughs greatly helps.
