One of my favorite stories to tell people is about the day I was born. I’m a firm believer that a person’s birth story provides great insight into how they will be as a person. My oldest daughter was born on her due date and is as easy, organized, and predictable as they come. My youngest daughter was four days late, came at high speed and without any indication that she was on her way. She is a force to be reckoned with, to put it mildly, and runs at full speed into everything.
My birthday is August 19, 1986. Doctors back in the 80s let expectant mothers go much farther past their due dates than doctors do now. How far beyond, you ask? In the case of my mother’s pregnancy with me, eighteen days. I camped out for almost three additional weeks until I was ready to make my debut, finishing off my extended stay with a stand-off that left my mom in the car in the hospital’s parking lot, anxiously waiting for the show to begin so she could be admitted.
I came when I was ready to, and over 36 years later, I still don’t typically do things until I am ready to. Including accepting God’s invitations.
Historically, I elect to either not RSVP at all or to come right out and tell Him, “No, thanks. I just can’t.” There are certainly many reasons I could offer for declining His invitation, all of them rooted in not being ready. But none of those reasons are valid. The God of Noah, the God of Abraham, the God of Moses, the God of Jacob, the God of David, does not invite His beloved children into things that they are prepared for by their own accord. He invites them into things that require risk, that require courage, that require vulnerability, and that require them to ask Him to do what He needs to do.
Not being ready is the reason I didn’t sit at the picnic table with Him, and it will be the reason I continue to prevent a mess from being made into beauty, so long as I allow my “unreadiness” to drive my choices.