by Gretel

Created on: September 26, 2009

As the smoke clears from yet another burned bridge, I know that there's something to be learned here, something else in addition to the other fifty million things God is presently teaching me. In this particular situation, what grieves me is not how I feel I have been treated, but the somber realization that I've treated God in much the same way. But out of the ashes of grief arises a resolute desire to never go there again.

It doesn't bother me so much that I have lost a friend. It doesn't bother me so much that I was given the silent treatment after I confronted issues in an attempt to right what was wrong. It doesn't bother me so much that no matter how much I tried to go back to normal, I was still shunned. The accusations hurled at me in retaliation don't bother me. I feel I was being used; this person cared more about the things I did for them rather than our friendship. That kind of bothers me.

But what really does bother me is simply this: how many times does God discipline us or convict us and we, either directly or indirectly, stay angry at Him and distance ourselves from Him? How many times do we get angry at Him for taking away something that He didn't even have to give us in the first place? He doesn't owe us anything; we owe Him everything. Yet when He takes something away, we pout like children. What is that?!

But what really breaks my heart is the knowledge that I need to love God simply for who He is, not for what He does. Yes, He does awesome and powerful things, but after all, He is the I AM THAT I AM, not the I AM THAT I DO.

Being in this situation helps me understand how it feels when people care more about what you do for them rather than caring about you. It's kind of like back in high school when the elite, popular kids would sit next to me and pretend to want to talk to me only because it was test day and they wanted to cheat off me because they knew I'd have the right answers. That's all they wanted.

Then I think about what really matters when I look back on my childhood. Yes, my father provided for me, but I don't cherish the memories of him working at the office or paying the bills or shopping for groceries. What means the most are those one-on-one times where he'd sing me to sleep or when he'd play Monopoly with me and my brother. It's not the times where he took us shopping for clothes or household items we needed that I remember; it's the times I sat on one side of him with the cat on the other in the recliner at about 5:30 every

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