"Stop! Stay! Come!"

It was a wonderful idea, a grand plan.  My daughter was working in Las Vegas for a week, and she suggested I fly down with the two grandgirls for the weekend.  She had a list of places to go to, things to see, and activities that were kid friendly.  The dates were set, plane reservations made, and it was set in motion.

The girls were excited and thrilled, for the most part.  The one exception was that the one I call the sparkly girl had a grave fear of airplane travel.  However, not wanting to stay behind and miss out on the possibility of a fun-filled weekend, she mustered up all the courage she had and consented, the prospect of seeing Mom at the end of the flight adding to her resolve.

Dad had allowed the girls to pack their own backpacks with the instructions that, since they would be carrying them, they needed to be a weight they could handle.  What wasn’t factored in on the test run--or walk--was the fact that carrying a backpack while walking around the living room is not the same as carrying it a distance through an airport, especially when you’re 5 years old.

Neither of the two adults in this situation did our own TSA check prior to leaving for the airport.  Had we done so, we would have discovered the little one had filled hers with books, a video game, and as much of her bedroom as possible.  I’m not sure she had packed a change of underwear or clothes, but she made certain she was going to be entertained.

I have parented four of my own children, but having the responsibility of my grandchildren on such a trek was something completely different.  I haven’t figured out what the difference is, but it weighed heavily on me from the beginning, delivering this precious cargo to their mother.

We had just got through the doors, heading into the airport terminal when I knew I was in trouble.  I was just hoping I wasn’t in over my head.  This wasn’t even a large group, just two little girls! The older one was a sprinter, striding ahead towards God-knows-where and-what; the younger one a lagger, sight-seeing along the way as though she had all the time in the world. 

I explained the importance of staying together, and I’m sure they heard me.  At least they seemed to be listening.  Life in action is a whole other story, though, isn’t it?

The flying experience of this grandmother and her two grandgirls very quickly reached the point of monosyllabic communication, that of “Stop!  Stay!  Come!”--the first two directives spoken rather loudly at the one who was heading out, the latter at the one who was trailing.  When we had once again become a group of three, we would continue on. 

At some point the little one trailing behind expressed how heavy her backpack was.  When I offered to carry it for her I realized the truth of what she said.  The weight of all those books made it a load, even for me.

This scene played out over and over as we made our way towards the plane.  Laughter soon took over as they knew what was coming, what to expect as our group of three spread out.  At one point the sparkly one asked, “Grandma, is 'Stop!  Stay!  Come!' the only thing you know how to say?”  I explained to her that it was the only way I could get their attention, that talking to them was ineffective.  She giggled.

I am this same way with God at times. Sprinting out with my own plans, my own way, He can try communicating with me, but when dealing with headstrong determination it is futile. And so He says, “Stop!  Stay.”  With no place for me to go, no other options I concede and wait.  Other times I drag my feet, resisting a path or a direction He has laid out. Once I have reconciled and understood that His way is the better way, then He says, “Come!,” and the two of us head off once again.  As with my grandgirls, the base is love.

Sometimes I find myself wondering how I am going to be remembered when life in this form has come to an end.  I have no doubt that for two of my grandgirls that memory will be condensed into three words—“Stop!  Stay!  Come!”