Not Forgotten

Choosing JOY

She forgot to pick me up.

I stood on my pink ballet shoe tip-toes squinting through the rain that ran squiggly rivers down the front lobby window. Panic slowly rising up in my chest as tutus and hair-bows disappeared behind car doors and the carpool line shrunk to zero, zilch. And still she wasn’t there.

She forgot me.

And just as my throat squeezed tight and the tears threatened to spill over, that old silvery-blue Mazda pulled to a stop in front of me. And her brown eyes met mine with a huge smile and exaggerated wave.

Mom!

I stand on my grown-up tip-toes. Scanning the path I’m on. Searching through confusion. Sorting through my mind. Wondering at the plan.

Where is He?

I wonder if God’s people in the Old Testament felt the same way. Those 400 years between Old Testament and New Testament. I wonder if they thought, “He forgot…

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