Treat. It. Like. The. Game. It. Is.

Those were my very own words.

I was hot. Angry, hot. My child was getting worked up about something or other that a sibling had said while we were all playing a game of street hockey.

The details? Ever so irrelevant. It was just another ridiculous case of one child giving the other no grace after the other child had said something that could have been taken in a good spirit... but which wasn't...

And on and on it goes.

So when my child started to gripe, and with a whining voice threaten to remove the pleasure from the game we were playing, I got hot. "DROP IT NOW..." I said with a raised voice, "And. Treat. It. Like. The. Game. It. Is." This child has learned not to mess with Dad when Dad moves into that tone of voice, so the game proceeded, and pretty soon we were back into fun mode.

One major reason why I get so frustrated is that there is so little at stake. When the game is over, we get on with the rest of the day. The rest of the week. The rest of life. Within a few short weeks, nobody will be able to recall the score, the people who made those goals, or the plays that led up to the goals. All will be lost to time.

We would hope, however, that the time we spent together would be remembered in a more fundamental sense for much, much longer. Let it be remembered that we loved each other. That we played games together.

But the score? The gentle ribbing? Sigh. Do my children not see how unimportant these things are in a game of no consequence?

Fast forward a day or two. I was driving home. A sunny day. Well fed. Healthy. Coming home to a good and nice home. With healthy children. A loving wife. The list of blessings? It could have gone for pages.

Yeah, but you know what I'm going to say next. Was I happy? Not so much. I was grumbling to God about a few things in my life that seemed quite wrong. Things that, in fact, are quite wrong.

But I didn't get too far before I remembered. I am not going to be on Earth forever. A day is coming when the things I wish were otherwise will be gone forever. These things will not concern me in eternity.

You'd think that thought would have given me comfort. But it didn't. "God!" I thought to myself as I drove, "That's why I need this fixed NOW. It won't matter when I'm dead."

So, yeah. I thought that little thought over a bit. And chuckled. I'm no better than my child. Unable to realize that the passing pleasures and blessings of this life cannot compare with what awaits us. Might I miss out on a few good things here on Earth? Most surely. I'm sure we all do. And yet here I am unwilling to take the longer view. Insisting to sit in my mud-puddle, lamenting things I won't miss in 50 years.

Oh, God. Please forgive this petulant child. I can be blessed now. I can enjoy this life, too. If I will but relinquish dwelling on my wounds, I can revel in God's blessings which far outweigh all else.

And when I have passed from this life? I can then dwell in your presence, knowing joys so beyond my present experience that no words could ever capture their essence. And I'll also see clearly in hindsight that, through every moment of the former life—even the dark valleys... Yes, Yes, even there—you were present with me then, too. Present with me then, too.

As I wrote the closing words to this post, I found myself becoming aware of the music playing gently in the background.

You are my shepherd there's nothing I shall want
Beside still waters You lead my spirit on
Your hand will guide me no matter where I walk
Through darkest valley Your love is not far off

I will dwell in Your house forever
Lead me on

I fear no evil, for You are with me
You set this table before my enemies
And You anoint me You overflow my cup
And they will follow me, Your goodness and Your love

I will dwell in Your house forever
Lead me on

Your rod and Your staff are a strange mercy
In a world where I'm not yet home
Your rod and Your staff are a strange mercy
In a world where I'm not yet home

I will dwell in Your house forever
Lead me on
And I will dwell in Your house forever
Lead me on

— Audrey Assad