A book. A story. A dual ending. Our choice. God is the original author of the fairytale. (That's the story with the happy ending.)
We choose whether we listen to His work, or write over the plot He's mapped out. As in all the famous ones, Sleeping Beauty, Snow White, Cinderella, Rapunzel, there are happy moments. But so very often, I find my story filled with hardship. Making that hardship bearable, is my belief in that ending. Every good love story has a happy ending.
I find my efforts to create that ending so ironic. I take off with an idea, or a thought, or a feeling, and start writing my own next chapter. Or ten chapters. Those pages reflect what I like. What I want. With no thought as to whether my Author, who sees all the characters in ways I never will, has written the same thing, I launch myself into this fantasy, this imagined future. And then it hits me. I don't know if this is anywhere in my storybook. It might be. Maybe a few chapters later. Maybe now. But I don't know. I can't know. Because I forged my own path.
All along I should have been paying close attention to my Guide. Avoiding every cleverly set snare. Skirting around deep ravines where I could easily slip and fall. Keeping watch for predators, and fleeing from the before they can harm me.
My Guide knows the trail better than any. So I rely on His expertise. The signs and roadways and fellow travelers can be so persuasive. When I am afraid, I just keep my eyes on Him. He walks ahead of me, and I watch Him. Crossing a narrow bridge, my eyes are on Him. Whatever lies below us, I trust my Guide. When I have walked, and climbed, been scratched and bruised, I'm sore and tired, and cannot move, I call out to Him. He turns back for me and lifts me up. He carries me, gives me strength and healing.
At times I've walked a different way. Being my own guide sounds exciting. At times I quickly return to Him. Other times I am gone much longer. There is always a point at which I realize that I'm getting nowhere.
I have to bag up the pride I've collected, hoarded like dirty dishes on the counter, leftovers still stuck on and growing strange fuzzy things... the pride can't be separated from the plates and bowls and goblets I've acquired. All of them must go out. I throw them out with the garbage. I can't carry these things with me. There simply isn't room for them in my pack.
When I've done away with the treasures of the unguided path, I set out to look for Him. I need no map. I know exactly where I went wrong. I seek out my Pathfinder, only the closer I get, the more I realize He's been looking for me too. He's sent people after me: messengers, comforters, encouragers. He has been fervently calling for me, trying to woo me back to Him, to rest in His shadow. Out in the wilderness, I didn't have His judgment to follow. I hadn't been looking to Him; I'd stumbled, I'd fallen. Without His true leadership, I was easily distracted, carried along with some others, down paths leading nowhere.
God wrote my fairytale. It's a beautiful story. I realize this once I sit down and listen to Him read it. You can't try to flip ahead. It doesn't work that way. You just have to listen. You don't tell a great storyteller that His story should take a different turn. You enjoy it. Revel in the wonder of what the next page brings, not worrying about the plotline. There's no sense in fretting about little things. They're already written in the story. Let each chapter end how it will. And don't be bitter for it. There are things He has included in your story that you are anxious for. He wants to surprise you with them. You see, He's a hopeless romantic too.
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