Disappoint Me, Lord: Teach Me To Give Up My Picture-Perfect Expectations
Lord, this is not the Christmas that I expected.
You know very well how I spent many sleepless nights last month just imagining how this December should look. In that picture, I can see golden Christmas lights on our front window. I can hear the children singing the latest ABS-CBN Christmas station ID as I rummage through my pockets for a 20-peso bill. I imagined wearing my brown clerical polo on the Christmas evening mass, my mother and my sister beside me. I saw the faces of friends I hadn’t seen in more than a year: warm hugs, stories, and copies of 365 Days with the Lord being passed around. I also saw an Instagrammable Noche Buena picture.
Honestly, I was a bit disappointed, Lord.
The 5-day home quarantine in my schedule turned out to be ten days. There were no Christmas lights at home. A week ago, a devastating storm crippled our electricity and the mobile network. My friends in the neighboring regions lost their homes and are in dire need of water. Posting festive Christmas photos seems a bit awkward now. At home, I found out that kids don’t do caroling anymore. Sad. We haven’t had any liturgical services either.
It’s also the first death anniversary of my Lola. Nobody is saying anything. The house reeks of unprocessed grief and trauma from that tragic day (which happened a few days before Christmas). Everyone’s still not ready to put up her picture or even mention her name. We are still unable to pray for her as a family. In place of a Christmas tree, an elephant sits in the middle of the room. Patience, I told myself. This is still gonna be a long, complicated process.
But your birthday came anyway.
No, not ruined… just different (from how I imagined it to be.) On Christmas Eve, I sat on the swing with my mother. We had a relaxed chit-chat. The skies were clear, and all the stars were visible. It was beautiful. “Baw sayang. Waay ta abi ti DSLR mung.” (Too bad we don’t have a DSLR camera to capture this.)
Christmas came but it didn’t come with the “Joy to the World” jingle I imagined it to have. Instead, it felt like a “Silent Night”/ “O Holy Night” mashup. I know because we were asleep at home when midnight came. The planned picture-perfect Noche Buena didn’t happen but oh Lord, that was the best sleep I had for months (Thank you.) The night was filled with a hopeful song of peace, comfort, and silence.
It was Christmas, alright. I knew that it was you.
Looking back at the disappointment I felt these past days, I begin to see that the problem is not having ideal expectations. Can you blame me, Lord for painting a happy, safe, and complete family picture in my Christmas plan? I believe most people who love do that. I can only imagine your parents, Mary and Joseph, knocking from door to door to find a comfortable and decent place for your birth. They were the first people to have a picture-perfect expectation of Christmas. But at some point during that night, they gave up. That night, your parents decided to trust God. They saw the full inns and closed doors not as rejections but as redirections… pointing them to the stable. It was a new picture. It was not part of the plan. I’m sure that for any parent, the idea of giving birth in an animal stall is revolting, but they had the humility to lower their resistance and surrendered to the wisdom of the events that led them there. I admire your parents for that, Lord.
The problem, it seems, is not in having little ideal pictures of the future. The problem is in not being willing to give them up. The events of last week did not ruin Christmas. What it ruined was my ‘picture-perfect’ image of Christmas. Now, I understand that my suffering is not much about the external painful situations that happened outside my control but more about my inner resistance. Until the last moment, I was unwilling to let go of my draft — of my little picture of how things ought to be: how Christmas should look like, how a family should be, how growth and healing should feel. The more I claw, hold on, insist, and grip my little picture, the more the suffering continues.
I was so busy, like a spoiled child who wants to control the world, ranting: “No Lord, I don’t want it this way! I want it to be this way!” that I didn’t have the time to pause and ask: “Why is it like this? What do you want to teach me, Lord? Where are you leading me?”
I have a little picture of my family, always happy and healthy. Nobody dead.
I have a little picture of the same set of brothers still present when I go back to the seminary after the vacation.
I have a little picture of the resolution of this pandemic.
I have a little picture of how friends should be and who I want to be around most of the time.
I have a little picture of my healing and my progress.
Though I would be very glad to see my little pictures of the future happening before my eyes, I admit, Lord, that these little pictures I am insisting are limited, often selfish, short-sighted, uncertain, and parochial. I know that some things are beyond my control. I also know that millions of other human beings are insisting too their own little expectations, just as short-sighted as mine.
So, Lord, teach me to trust in your vision, please. Teach me the humility to let go of my picture-perfect image of life and the wisdom to realize that my little picture is not perfect at all simply because I am human and not God. (But I admit, oftentimes I forget that). I cannot see beyond my 180-degree line of sight. I cannot know beyond the pages of history books, beyond the statistical forecasts of the future. I cannot see beyond the fence of my backyard, beyond the smiling face of my neighbor — or beyond his daily tantrums. I find it hard to love beyond those who did me well nor forgive beyond those who ‘took the first step and said sorry.’
But you, Lord, see beyond what has been and what could be. You see everything. You know what’s best. You see beyond instant gratifications. You love all, despite and because of who they are. You are beyond birth and death. You see past my sin and brokenness. You have the patience to listen to long speeches and understand the message of silence. You make lilies grow in dumpsites. You make strong warriors rise up from indescribable tragedies. What reasons do I have not to trust you? Who am I not to surrender to your detours, re-directions, wise refinements, and corrections?
Lord, give me the humility of a writer approaching the Editor’s office. Let me come to you with my optimistic, well-meant, and painstakingly done draft, and trust that whatever you discard, modify, or add is meant to make my story better. I surrender to your infinite Wisdom.
Lord, give me the trust of a little child. I may not fully understand why you let certain things happen and fully comprehend the path that you are leading me towards, but let me stick by your side … simply because of the knowledge that you love me and that everything you do is for my benefit. I surrender to your infinite Goodness.
Remind me each time who is in control. Remind me each time to trust who is in control. Make me give up my little picture and hold on to your grand designs.
Disappoint me, O Lord.
Again and again.
