Reframing

Lights dimmed, torches burned, and fog rolled over the castle wall, flowing across the stage and down into the orchestra pit where the ominous tone was being set by brass, strings, and percussion.  The old lady, who really wasn't, cast her spell on the prince and away the story went.  A tale as old as time, song as old as rhyme.  

An angry, threatening beast, an arrogant, intimidating hunter, and growling, snarling wolves had my 50-pound son on my lap within seconds.  Though we had paid for two seats, it looked like we'd be cozying up together.  I wrapped my arms around him and we watched, barely getting to know characters before they were locked away in a dark dungeon, attacked by menacing wolves, or at the mercy of a hideous and turbulent beast.  So much was unexpected, so much was too much.  

My little boy, the big one who can ride his bike around Bird’s Hill Park, clean the bathroom, add two-digit numbers, and use the word ‘tepid’ correctly, huddled against me.  Heart racing, body tense, overwhelmed, too scared to look and too scared to look away.

I could have stood up and carried him out.  We would have had to squeeze awkwardly past seven people to get to the aisle and then climb the stairs in the dark.  We would have lost the $40 we spent on tickets.  But that isn’t why we didn’t leave.  We stayed because I knew he could make it through and because I knew it could be worth it for him.  

And so as the intensity of music and scenes built, I saw things as my son saw them, even as I softly spoke the truths I knew.  Character after character, song after song, dialogue after dialogue, I whispered into his ear, giving context, simplifying motives, making feelings relatable and actions understandable.  My words reframing what he was living.  Bit by bit his body relaxed as he accepted that what he was seeing on the stage was not the whole story it was just a story.  He could allow himself to be drawn in, experiencing fear and unknown with the characters, or he could allow himself to believe my reframing.  To trust that maybe, just maybe what he was seeing with his eyes, hearing with his ears, and feeling with his heart was not the full picture.  To trust that I knew things he could not know.  

Forty-five minutes and numerous scenes later, he slowly started to learn the truth of the words I was pouring from my heart into his.  The act of trusting when truth seemed to contradict reality wasn’t intuitive at first.  But his instincts had urged him straight into the lap of someone who could speak truth and so he practiced listening to the voice until, almost without warning, he clung to trust and crawled back over to his own seat again.  Still holding hands, confidence rooted in someone who could reframe scary and unknown and overwhelming and dangerous.  

It’s not hard to draw a parallel from this story.  Put an uppercase S on Someone and picture yourself curled up on the lap of your heavenly Papa.  The One whose thoughts are higher than your thoughts.  The One whose ways are higher than your ways.  The One who is faithful and worthy of trust.  The One who can reframe what you are seeing and hearing and living, if only you will sit close enough to allow Him to whisper into your ear.  

Can you let Him whisper now?  Praise Him for being the One in whom you can trust, simply because of who He is.  And let Him show you where you can trust Him more.  

(If there is anyone who actually reads, I'd welcome a response.  This is a devotional I am preparing for this weekend.)