I can’t seem to reach my son. He lives a couple of states away, in Maryland, so I can’t just drop by and say Hello, like I used to. He says that there’s an issue with his phone. I call and I call; he doesn’t call me, and I can’t get through to him.
The only way I’ve been able to have a conversation with him is if I call him while he’s at work. Once I can finally speak with him, the conversation usually starts off like this:
“Hey! I’ve been trying to reach you. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” my son will say. “No one’s been able to reach me; I think I need to get a new phone. It’s been fritzing out on me.”
“Oh, good. I was beginning to wonder if you were avoiding me, or something like that.”
“No. I’ve been meaning to get something done about the phone. I’ve probably just been lazy about it.”
“Ahh. That’s okay,” I’ll say. “I hope you don’t mind me calling you at work. I just didn’t know what else to do.”
“No. You’re fine,” he says.
“So, there’s been something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”
… and then I can chat with him for a few minutes. Just a few minutes, since he’s obviously, justifiably preoccupied.
This has been our pattern for the last few years.
Please don’t think that I haven’t complained to God about this scenario, because I have. When I did, He answered to the effect, “I’m so glad that I’ve gotten your attention!”
That is, two things are at work here.
First, there is the longing in my heart—which I regularly experience, nowadays—to reach my son. Not necessarily to impart to him some golden nugget of wisdom, but just to reach him, so that we can spend a few minutes in each other’s presence.
As I’ve mentioned, those moments are far and few between. For my part, the more that I’m without him, the more that I long to share a moment with him. I actually become anxious, after some time, wondering if he has some grievance against me.
Then, when we do talk and he says that it’s him and not me, I’m relieved. I had been feeling a little starved, hungry for his presence; then I feel relieved, then satisfied, then hopeful that we can talk again, soon.
Secondly, for his part, he comes clean, and apologizes (in effect), though I wonder how truthful he really is about his phone—which I’m happy to be wrong about. We then pick up the conversation as if we had been speaking every day. There’s no friction, no memory of any issue, and he’s happy to chat.
~~~
The group The Second Chapter of Acts has a song (here) that speaks of the frustration I sometimes experience, in relation to my son. It places that same frustration squarely within the heart of God. The song tells me that He who created heaven and earth, He who can still move heaven and earth, is unable to get close to the heart of those who don’t have time for Him.
Yes, there are some things that God cannot do. Reaching those who don’t want to be reached is too often beyond the purview of God. The unlimited God indeed has limits, when it comes to our hearts.
The writer of the song, Annie Herring, invites the listener into God’s presence, saying, “Open your heart; here’s a new start.”
This lyric seems to speak of the sinner who never met the Lord. But it may also apply to us, who know Him and know that He wants us living lives in His presence—while we walk around preoccupied with life, with work, with good works, or even act spiritually lazy or lie to ourselves, saying We’ve got enough God in our lives.
I know that I’ve done and said all of those things, at various times, in various ways. And yet, whenever I reach out to my God and Savior, the response from His heart to mine is as my own heart to my son: Let’s pick up where we left off; let’s enjoy the moment and look forward to the next time.
So, can we not ask ourselves: Is my phone ringing? Is it turned on? Are we calling our Father back?
~~~
I can’t get near you,
Even though I died for you.
I can’t get through to you,
Even when those nails went through,
In pain.
All I tried to explain
Is my love, all of my love,
That I long to give you—
A love you can live through,
A love that is free, perfectly free,
To heal all your sorrows,
For all your tomorrows.
So open your heart,
here’s a new start.
I love you, but I can’t get near you.
All I tried to explain is my love.
Annie Herring
—Kevin Hutchins
