missing the mark

[spoiler alert – this story is almost a lock to become a sermon illustration this week or next, so just pretend you're hearing it for the first time (which, technically, you will be, unless someone reads this out loud to you) if you hear it on Sunday]

it's been said, and i agree, that the biblical concept of sin includes the idea of "missing the mark." certainly there are times when we're not even aiming for the bullseye, so missing the mark isn't that surprising. but wouldn't you know it, even when I think I'm zeroed in I can miss so wide as to endanger unsuspecting onlookers.

case in point. starting with some background. our daughter Elle recently had eye surgery to correct a condition called exotropia (basically her eyes weren't always lined up properly – which probably explains why she fell and broke her arm earlier this spring: the doctor thinks she was seeing double, so she reached for a rung of the ladder that wasn't actually there, but that's another story…). after the surgery (which was very successful), she was a little extra cranky, and we were a little extra attentive to her complaints and desires, as can only be expected. as can also be expected, she began to find ways to exploit the new responsiveness in her parents. you know, whining to get her way, acting helpless when she felt a little lazy, that sort of thing. minor stuff, but it started to add up, until we realized it was probably time to stop slacking off on discipline for fear of creating a monster.

so last week when she yelled down the stairs for Ronni to "help" her go downstairs, it occurred to us that, recently, we sure had been spending a lot of time helping a 2 year old go up and down the stairs. a 2 year old, by the way, who had been running up and down them, hands full of toys most of the time, without any trouble, for about a year now. and by "helping" I mean carrying. which had been good exercise and all, but still. so we stood our ground.

"come on down, Elle," we called.

"help me!" Elle whined.

"you're a big girl; you can do it."

"no, help!" she said, with that kind of grumbly voice only present in 2 year olds.

"Elle, either come down on your own, or stay upstairs. your choice."

now the whining turned into crying. see how much ground we had lost over the last week or so? no more. line in the sand time. time to stop complaining or its time for a time out. the complaining continued, so a timeout ensued. 2 minutes. followed by an apology, hugs, and a promise of no more complaining.

but then immediately: "help me go downstairs?" you've got to be kidding. replay above conversation one more time. replay resistence and tears. replay timeout. another apology. another hug. another promise of a new leaf.

and then, you guessed it another request for help. and more tears when we wouldn't carry her downstairs.

long story a little less long: before escalating the discipline, before lathering, rinsing, and repeating again, inspiration intervened. eye surgery…corrected vision…eyes weren't properly aligned before, but they are now… "Ronni, has she been like this since the surgery?"

"you know, now that you mention it, maybe…"

takes 2 eyes in perfect alignment for proper depth perception, after all. sweet Elle hadn't been able to perceive depth accurately until after the surgery, and the stairway that she'd navigated so easily before, now loomed like the grand canyon in front of her, in terrifyingly crystal clear 3-D.

a sinful man, that's what I am.

thankfully, after holding my hand and making our way down the stairs together on our bottoms, she's back to running up and down them without fear. as for me? thank God for mercy.