The tears of disappointment burn hot. There is effort to hide them, to choke them back and put up a strong front, but the dam breaks hard and there is no denying it.
It doesn’t matter the matter, large or small. Right now, at the moment of breaking, the matter is smothering and disappointing and no one else cares enough or understands enough.
I try to mother the disappointment, to comfort it while at the same time correcting it. Isn’t that what we do? But all the emotions of youth are too strong for mother-logic.
Hope deferred makes the heart sick and when your hope is on anything other than Jesus, you are bound to be disappointed.
This is what I preach to the disappointed child, what I pray they let into their heart. Hold all those plans loosely, I say. Always subject to change, this life.
Does that sound fatalistic?
I am that mom that doesn’t tell her kids they’re going somewhere until we are all actually in the car and buckled. I’m the one that keeps exciting news secret till the last minute because who wants to console four disappointed children if the anticipated event falls through?
Maybe we will go…
Maybe we will do…
Maybe we will see…
Disappointments still come and we have to learn to deal with it. I need more yes and less maybe, more turning to Jesus and less controlling of all the emotions and circumstances.
Maybe is the chicken’s way out. Maybe more disappointment will open the way to more hope? Is that possible?
To be disappointed with this world just might turn us more and more to the Hope of Heaven, might take the sick hearts to the Healer Who never changes and Who’s plans are unfailing.
So what if we all dream together about the possibilities and taste a little disappointment and failure now and then? What if we stop letting worry steal our moments?
That’s the stuff of this temporary life and doesn’t all that bitterness make you long for something sweet?
That’s my hope. And my imperfect-parenting has to make way for hope.