First Haircut

I was thinking about how hard it is to patiently endure life's circumstances, while waiting on God and resting in His promises. As a Christian I know it will all work out in the end. I know I'll end up in eternity with God, enjoying never-ending and ever-increasing bliss and blessing. So, relatively speaking, how important is my job? How important is my health? How important are the material blessings in my life? Not very.

If God can take care of the eternal bliss part, he can take care of the job-health-stuff part, right? I may not have the job-health-stuff ratio that I'm looking for at a given moment, but he'll do what's necessary between now and eternity to make sure I get there. Even if I don't like the process.

All this makes me think of the first haircut I got. Grandpa did it on the back porch. He had clippers, scissors, combs and even one of those plastic cloaks to keep the hair from getting all over your clothes. He sat me down on a stool, put the cloak on me, and started in. I did not like it one bit.

First off, I didn't trust Grandpa enough. I was positive those clippers would cut my ears off. If it could cut hair, surely it could cut my skin, right? And what if he accidentally poked me in the eye? I mean, those things were SHARP! Then there was the fact that the clippers tickled when he cut my neck hairs and above and around my ears. So, I squirmed and fidgeted and slumped and whined, repeatedly asking "Are you done yet?". I was miserable. And I bet Grandpa was too; we went to the barber shop for my haircuts after that.

The thing is, Grandpa was just trying to do something good for me: cut my hair so that I didn't look like Shirley Temple (As a toddler/preschooler I had curly blond hair). He had no intention of hurting me. Likewise, God is just trying to do something good for me (and for his glory): conform me to the image of his Son. But I fidget and whine and complain. I keep asking "When is this going to be over?". I spend my time worrying about the future, worrying that God is going to let me down or finally let me have it for all the bad things I've done. Many times, I just simply don't trust God to get me home safely.

Interestingly, I really enjoyed the results of my first haircut. I had "big boy" hair and could comb and part it, just like Grandpa. Fortunately I have the memory, and while the memory is far more enjoyable than the experience was, I wonder how much more enjoyable the memory would be if I'd spent that time in the chair talking to Grandpa instead of fighting against him? If I'd listened and obeyed his instructions to "sit still"? I wonder.