"Daddy, I want to do it..."

It was the summer of 1977 (I think) and we were moving across town to a house that needed a lot of work but was bigger and in a better neighborhood. There was wallpaper to be stripped and replaced, minor repairs to make, floors to refinish, and tons of painting. My grandfather came to help. I was about 10 and thought I was one of the men. I kept pestering them, “Can I help? I want to do it.”

Finally, the time came to paint my room—my very own bedroom. I was sure I could do it now. It was my room after all. In an exasperated attempt at appeasement, I was given a brush and paint bucket and pointed toward the closet. I got to do it.

Years later, when my mom was preparing to sell that house, I was looking around and realized why you only let a ten year old paint in the closet; my, what shoddy work! Clearly the quality between the room and closet was stark—my superman of a grandfather and my dad versus me.

The other day I was tending to some household chores (my ability hasn't advanced much in the intervening years) and my son began asking, “Dad, can I do it? Can I help?” After expressing my exasperation at his persistence and my lack of the handyman gene, I began looking for a closet for him to paint. (I fully realize that little boys take their cues about manhood from their dads and that Timothy is looking to me for guidance for being male, but that isn't the point of my story.)

The reality is that I similarly pester my heavenly father all the time. I want to do it. I want him to get out of the room and let me try my hand. I get confused and think I am the master painter and forget that I even mess up paint by the numbers. I think I am capable. When I inevitably fail, I mount a God is My Co-Pilot license plate on my car. Which is just one more way of me advertising my stubbornness and idiocy (as if it wasn't in evidence already.)

Lately, I am amazed less at my seemingly insatiable urge to do it myself and marvel more at God's willingness to patiently teach me. Perhaps the first principle we (I) must get clear is that God is God and I am not. He often sends me to the closet to paint knowing that I am stubborn and need sharp correction, which He lovingly provides by converting the closet into a stage. Boy, that conversion hurts, but it sure is sweet. Like old wallpaper, pride doesn't strip away easily, nor does my belief that I am able, apart from Dad. Thankfully God doesn't chasten out of exasperation or perverted motives. He moves out of love. He works to shape me into the image of His Son, my older brother.
So, as we walk through this life together, we must remind one another about the closet, and willingly embrace the Father as the Painter. As we parent, employ our gifts, struggle with our families and embrace our calling as Kingdom agents, let us do it, empowered by the Spirit, led by the Father, and covered by the Son.