I’m Still Surprised by His Goodness

I’m 48 years old. Sometimes it’s hard for me to believe that. By the time I was 8, I already knew God’s goodness. I was born to parents who loved the Lord, and I never knew any kind of life that didn’t include a church where I felt completely at home. By God’s grace, I realized my need for Jesus at that tender age, and I prayed with my parents in my bedroom after a hotdog supper where an evangelist said the same things I’d been hearing my whole life. That night, those words cut me to the heart. I knew that following Jesus was my soul’s only option, and I set out to love Him with the long life that stretched out before me.

Of course, I didn’t understand just how long this road would be, or how quickly forty years later would arrive. This week I dyed my hair for the first time ever. The grey hairs had become a little too numerous, and I felt very much “almost 50” as I walked in and sat in the chair, looking at my once vibrant red hair, now faded to a lackluster shade that was nothing like 8 year old me. It seemed a fitting metaphor for how many times in these 40 years that I myself have grown lackluster, forgetting the thrill of knowing Jesus. Forgetting how constant God’s goodness really is in my life.

The truth is that I’ve known Jesus for 40 years, but I’m still surprised when God blesses me in specific ways. I wonder how long I will have to know His goodness before I start expecting His blessings and His encouragement and His obvious care for me? Every time I’m surprised by what He’s done, I realize that I don’t have a big enough imagination when it comes to the things that God can and will do. My vision is cloudy. My dreams are small. I’m content to operate in the world of hand-wringing and hesitant hope instead of joyfully bounding into the future with all assurance that God’s goodness goes with me.

Recently I found myself completely shocked by how perfect He really is. I marveled at how well He knows me, how completely He understands my doubts and fears, and how willing He is to give me more than I know to ask for. His goodness is entirely beyond my wildest hopes. I know this, sitting here now, basking in the shiny glow of the latest way that He has revealed His goodness in my life. But I’m afraid in another little while, maybe it will take a month or two, but at some point in the not distant future, I will again wring my hands about something new that I think I need to find solutions for, and I will forget.

Sometimes I picture 8 year old me, lying in my bed the night that God drew me to Himself, when my stomach was filled with butterflies at the sheer expectation of what He would do in my life. I had no doubts. I had no small dreams. I felt no need to wring my hands. Whatever goodness God had in store for me from that point forward didn’t seem like a long shot. It seemed like a sure thing, something to anticipate. Something to be ready for.

As much as I love being surprised by the Lord, I long for the faith of a little child that Jesus spoke about. It’s a faith that expects great things from a great God, that isn’t clouded by the complicated ways that grown ups try to figure everything out for themselves. I want to remember that the God who knows how many dyed hairs are on this 48 year old head loves His children lavishly, without a single reservation, without a hint of bias. I want to live with with expectancy bubbling over all the time, from a heart that recognizes how far His goodness will go. He pulled me to His side when I was 8 years old, and in 40 years He has never stopped proving how unlimited His blessings really are. I really shouldn’t be surprised that He loves so deeply in such specific ways.

I wonder if, when another 40 years have gone by, I will have learned to anticipate God’s extravagant goodness? Will I have learned how to live joyfully, with full faith in the ways that God will bless? I wonder if, by the time I’m 88, I’ll finally have the faith of a little child?

You know what? I expect that He can work miracles in my heart before then–because He is good.