When I was younger and would hear the story of how my parents met, I’d close my eyes and imagine myself watching how it all went down.
I’d see my father walk into the department store, trying not to trip over his bellbottom pants. He picks out his Afro with the fist-handled pick and sticks his nametag on his shirt. As he heads to the cash register, he encounters a new employee, a cashier, on her first day of work.
With a neat mini-fro and a dusky brown wrap dress, my mother introduces herself and flashes a shy smile. My father, the store manager, says hi and goes on about his way, noting to himself that the new girl has quite the pretty smile.
I wondered what would happen if I went back in time, entered the store at that moment, and told them all that would happen.
You two are going to fall in love!
You’re going to propose to her in 7 years!
You’re going to have two children!
There will be financial difficulties and in-law issues but you will be married for more than a quarter century!
I’m sure they’d look at me, look at each other, and deem me certifiable.
But if I told them how the story will go…
How it will progress…
How it will end…
If they knew all that, it might make things easier.
Make nights more restful.
Make days less stressful.
Make their hearts more comfortable.
If they knew all that, it would have messed up their faith walk.
Such knowledge would have eliminated lessons that God wanted them learn.
It would have ruined the story.
There are days where I imagine my future daughter watching my story unfold.
Is her father standing right before my eyes, and she’s screaming at me to recognize him?
Is she blurting out spoilers?
Is she reading lines written in the script before they are even said?
She probably is.
But I have to be glad I can’t hear her.
Trying to continue to trust Him.