God and I have been working on reining in our expectations. This is even harder for God than for me. It’s strangely comforting to know that the pain of my life’s chronic disappointments will end when I end. Not so for God. God’s unmet expectations and foiled hopes repeatedly jump the guardrails and roll around like bowling balls, bruising the same spots over and over. God’s tenacity and bravery are astonishing. Who else would willingly sign on for such endless frustrations?
“Aw, it’s not that bad,” God says, clearly pleased with my empathy and sincere admiration. “I do have a buttload of setbacks and disappointments to lug around but look at all the counterbalancing joys and successes.”
When God says things like buttload my adolescent self starts giggling, and my perspective shifts: The idea of everything going my way seems silly; fears and unfulfillments shrink; and my expectations shelve themselves in the basement pantry.
I take a few deep breaths, slap myself on the side of the head, and tell myself to grow up. But I can’t seem to stop. Buttload, I chuckle to myself, causing another hysterical outburst. I’m like a child who wants to keep laughing for the sheer delight of laughing.
“Hey goofball,” God says. “Pull yourself together. You’re late for the parade.”
What? Parade? I am instantly defiant. “I don’t like parades,” I say firmly.
Back in the day, I played saxophone in the high school marching band, waved at the crowds from homemade floats, tossed candy, handed out fliers, and once, I twirled a baton for seven miserable blocks while unimportant people clapped and cheered. I’m over all that. I’m not going.
God shrugs. “Either you go to the parade, or the parade comes to you.”
I hear the drums in the distance. On the horizon, the silhouettes of a flag-bearing honor guard move in lockstep. The floats begin to roll by, festooned with banners held aloft by my ancestors and dearly departed friends. Tears spill down my cheeks. Sheesh. What is wrong with me?
DO WHAT YOU CAN! the banners proclaim. ENJOY EVERYTHING! EXPECT NOTHING!
“Okay, God,” I sob. “You win.”
I grab a rusty frying pan and a hefty stick of driftwood. “But if it’s all the same to you, I’ll beat my own damn drum.”
“You bet,” God says, and falls in beside and around me, a swirling rainbow, a cloud of witnesses, shaking ancient tambourines. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Short visits with an honest God 