From a Fellow Traveler

As a kid of the 80s, I watched my fair share of Sesame Street. Without a doubt, my favorite character was Cookie Monster. I found him relatable as a kid, and probably even more so as an adult. I am guessing most kids can still relate (Who doesn’t like cookies?), and in our modern age of designer offerings from the likes of Insomnia Cookies, Dirty Dough, or Crumbl Cookie, those golden baked slices of perfection are even more desirable than the simple chocolate chip variety Cookie Monster loved so much.

I have my own little cookie monster now, and over Christmas break (a time when cookies seem to be endless) she really wanted to have another cookie. Now, I knew she had already had one; I knew that dinner was just around the corner; and I was confident that there would be plenty of time after dinner for another cookie.

So I told her no.

Out of nowhere, that no set off a full-blown meltdown. I got a very loud huff of annoyance as my little darling stomped out of the room. I was meant to hear her flop down on the sofa in the living room with gusto. Then I heard her mutter, “You just don’t want me to be happy.“

I have thought about that exchange a lot lately. Especially that last part: “You just don’t want me to be happy.”

Since I last wrote, I have been to two funerals. I have a third to attend this Sunday. At this moment, I am sitting in a waiting room, again, as my wife is back for new scans, and I am writing in a desperate attempt to distract my mind from spiraling in a special kind of worry the cancer community has taught me to call “Scanxiety.” Between what is going on in my personal life and what I am watching others in our proximity deal with, it becomes extremely tempting to mutter, just barely loud enough to be hear, “You just don’t want me to be happy.”

And then I think of my cookie monster and her tantrum, and I feel convicted that God must often look at me the same way.

I knew full well she didn’t need another cookie. I knew she had already had a cookie. I knew she was going to get food that was much more nutritious than a cookie; and I knew there was absolutely going to be more cookies.

I even tried to tell her that.

I let her know that there was a plan, and we would have a cookie later, but not now.

It didn’t matter.

There was just no way in that moment she could understand what was going on or why, and any logic I tried to communicate to her was falling on deaf ears.

We can be a family or bullheads, so I didn’t bend. (I wonder where she gets it from?) But in hindsight, I regret how I handled that interaction. She is a good kid, and pretty mellow, so the outburst was probably about more than just cookies.

The same stresses I am under do not stop with me. It’s impossible to insulate your kids from second-hand anxiety, let alone all her own mixed up feelings about Mom being sick. So maybe that cookie was just the last straw for her that day.

It’s all a good reminder. In the same way that my child, in that moment, couldn’t understand the logic of that simple restriction, I have moments where I don’t understand why this is going on. At times, I want to flop on the sofa and ask God, “Why don’t you want me to be happy?” even though I know there is a bigger plan I don’t always see or understand.

“I will put enmity between you and the woman,
and between your offspring and her offspring;
he shall bruise your head,
and you shall bruise his heel.”

“He will swallow up death forever;
and the Lord GOD will wipe away tears from all faces,
and the reproach of his people he will take away from all the earth.”

“For I know the plans I have for you, declares the LORD, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope.”

“And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”

I can read the words. I can hear the words spoken to me. (Those verses were all read at one of the funerals I’ve been to recently; I’m sure there will be more at the funeral on Sunday.)

I can hear the words; but, like my daughter, I can’t understand the logic. Even when I see it being made true in my life, I still doubt it, just as she doubts there will be another cookie after dinner.

But despite her doubt, that whole time, I was still taking care of her. I was still guiding her. I still loved her and was making sure she had all that she needed.

I want to trust that God is doing the same for me.

As an adult, C isn’t for cookie anymore.

When I think about my wife, C is for Cure.

When I think about the massive amount of loss I have seen in the lives of those around us this month, C is for Comfort.

And in a time in our life that continues to feel chaotic and out of control, C is for Calm.

(And, who am I kidding, sometimes C is still just for Cookie.)

---

More from this Author