Go Ahead, Cross That Line

[et_pb_section bb_built="1"][et_pb_row][et_pb_column type="4_4"][et_pb_text]When she came out of the anesthesia, my daughter mumbled, “I feel like Robert De Niro.”“What did she say?” asked the attending nurse as she checked the incision.I laughed. “I don’t know. She says she feels like Robert De Niro. Her relatives are Italian. Maybe that’s where it came from.”She smiled and pulled the blanket up to cover Deborah’s shoulders. “People say all kinds of weird things when they’re coming out of it.”The nurse gave me post-op instructions, and I pulled my car around as close as I could to the exit. We each held an arm and gingerly eased Deb off the bed. With our help, she made her wobbly way to the car, reclined the seat as far as it would go, and drifted off into another hazy twilight.Over the next three days, my daughter didn’t want much to eat. She slept, and I woke her to administer pain meds. She was an easy patient, curled up in her bed most of the time.When she woke up on the fourth day, she looked a lot better. She said she was hungry.“Good,” I said. “I can make you soup or quesadillas or tuna. I could make you a salad. And I think there’s some leftover chili in there.”“No,” she shook her head. “None of that sounds good to me. That makes me feel sick.”“Well, I could bring you crackers and seltzer. I could make a ginger drink. How about some yogurt?”“No,” she said. “You know what I really want? A chicken sandwich from McDonald’s.”“Really?” I frowned.“Yes. That’s the only thing I want right now. That would be perfect. Can you drive to McDonald’s and get me a chicken sandwich?”“McDonald’s food is unhealthy. Besides, we have plenty of perfectly acceptable food here. Why can’t you just have some soup and crackers?”“Is it really such a big deal to drive a mile to McDonald’s and get me a sandwich? You could go through the drive-through.”“That’s not the point. It’s just not necessary.”“But it’s the only thing I can think of that won’t make me sick.”I sighed. “I’m just not willing to go to McDonald’s and get you a sandwich.”She cried. A lot. I hate that sound. But if I went now, I would feel manipulated. And I hate that feeling.Deborah didn’t get a chicken sandwich that day, but we discussed it later. And I realized where I went wrong. I had decided how much I would give. I gave it. And when I was done, I was done. It really wasn’t about what she needed, or what she thought she needed. It wasn’t about what was right for her or what God wanted me to do. I didn’t ask Him what to do. I had already decided.My decision was rational. It was defensible. But it was not faithful.To put it succinctly, I didn’t ask God what to do in this moment when “the right thing” wasn’t so clear. If I had approached this moment faithfully, I would have sent up a quick prayer for discernment. In hindsight, I think I would have done what my daughter asked because it’s better to err on the side of compassion, especially when the cost was so low. It really wouldn’t have been burdensome to get the sandwich.Boundaries can be very healthy, and I’m not advocating that people should always do whatever others request or demand. But I had drawn a line and that was all I could see. I should have looked at Jesus instead.[/et_pb_text][/et_pb_column][/et_pb_row][/et_pb_section]