An edited version was published in "Christian Reader", September/October 1998
Three year olds don’t have a wealth of experience to draw on, and it’s hard to describe a circus in terms they can understand. So I had talked with my grandson, Brandon, about the circus for days, trying to build a sense of excitement and anticipation. Finally, my talk about animals, high swings, and things that go fast created an intense excitement in him.
After a long drive, accompanied by talk of lions, horses, elephants, and clowns, we found our way to seats that cost far more than I wanted to pay, and certainly more than my grandson could appreciate. We had an excellent view of the traditional three rings. Even before things got started, we watched people dressed in gaudy clothes and funny hats, and folks rushing everywhere with a sense of excitement and anticipation. Beyond our immediate surroundings, the inevitable clowns cavorted while circus workers made final adjustments to wires, props, and lighting, all accompanied by pre-show music. Every few seconds, Brandon asked, "Where are the animals?" or "Can I go down there?"
And there were vendors. "Grandpa, can I have one of those?" or "I want a Coke/popcorn/balloon/sword/horn," made me wonder if I should have bothered bringing everyone to "the greatest show on earth." Everyone might have been happier if I had just gone to Kmart for a few trinkets. The "I need-to-go-to-the-bathroom" announcement to everyone on our side of the arena just moments before the lights began to dim was almost a welcome respite. His sudden focus on getting to the bathroom distracted Brandon briefly from the confusion overwhelming us. In a perverse way, it actually made me feel useful and maybe appreciated, because he sought my help in meeting an urgent need.
Back in our seats in a darkened arena, we enjoyed the performance under the spotlight. For a few seconds, anyway. The attention span of a three-year-old is amazingly short. The desire for whatever isn’t there at the moment makes whatever is there unsatisfying. As the trapeze artist demonstrated polished skill, Brandon begged for the horses. While the white poodle leaped from horse to galloping horse, he searched for tigers. Fast, noisy motorcycles produced an urgency for elephants, and elephants produced a clamor for clowns.
The trinkets won in the end. Not ours, but everyone else’s. Especially the one being waved around by the little girl right in front of us. Knowing that even a sword/gun/horn/light-ray would fail to bring lasting satisfaction, and would actually detract from the main event, I stalwartly refused to buy any gaudy, plastic toys. But the man in front of me succumbed. And then, with world-class performers demonstrating carefully honed skills and animal trainers displaying the results of untold patience, from expensive seats designed to focus our attention on the activity under the spotlight just ahead, my grandson, in a complete and unwitting lack of appreciation, was enamored by the sparkle of a cheap toy being flaunted in the row just ahead of us.
As we left the arena, I attempted to draw out Brandon’s comments about the big tigers, funny clowns, and daring motorcycles. But his insistent question, the thing that screamed for resolution in his mind, and that made me confident (at least for an hour or so) that I would never, ever do this again, was the plaintive, "But why couldn’t I have one of those lights?"
As I trudged back to the van with growing misgivings about the point of it all, an inner voice, often crowded out by the clamor around me, gently asked, "Are you paying attention yet?"
It was like a revelation. I felt like a three-year-old who suddenly became aware of all that I was overlooking. God my Father has lovingly brought me into His plans, at a cost to Himself that is far beyond my comprehension or appreciation. He gives me a ringside seat; no, He puts me right in the action, and delights in showing me His plans and creative wonders. But I get so caught up in what I think He should be doing—so eager that He do it my way and in my time—that I hardly notice what He’s really doing. Too often, I only look to God when I have an urgent need—something I can’t do for myself. He must delight in those brief acknowledgments that I actually need Him, even though, with my short attention span, I so quickly forget.
It’s amazing that, whatever God is doing, I want Him to do something else. If He’s teaching me, I want a miracle. I want instant answers to prayer. When He answers my prayer, I want revival. Maybe I need to learn to focus on what He is doing, rather than constantly nag Him to satisfy my immediate desires. Or perhaps I think He isn’t working if He’s not doing what I want at any given time.
But I think it’s the trinkets that most frustrate God! How He must long for me to understand His work and plan. But I get enamored with the little glitzy things that have no lasting value; such as more money, a new car, a bigger house, a beach house. Popularity. Power. Things I can show to others to prove my experience, even while I ignore the reality of God’s plan and purpose going on around me. My constant yammering must be a real irritation to Him.
I wonder if God ever thinks, "I’ll never do anything for him, again?" I’m certainly glad He loves me even in my immaturity. I pray that I’ll grow in my understanding of His design in His world, the price of His grace in my life, and the daily blessings He showers on me.
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