For am I now seeking the approval of man, or of God? Or am I trying to please man? If I were still trying to please man, I would not be a servant of Christ. Galatians 1:10
I had spent all day coloring. My arm hurt, my fingers cramped, but I couldn’t wait to show off my giant Beauty and the Beast picture to my family. The movie had come out earlier that year and I was obsessed. I loved the romance, the drama, the courage. I would hum “Tale as Old As Time” as danced through chores, “Be Our Guest” got me through the dishes, and I had recreated the opening village scene utilizing every barbie I owned more times than I could count. This picture just had to be perfect!
The last part left to color was Belle’s skin. I searched and searched for a cream marker, but couldn’t find one. Grabbing what I had – a brownish/orange – I started and immediately could see the mistake I had made. Belle looked like the poster child for a bad spray-on tan. Oh, well. There was nothing I could do, but keep coloring and finish. Maybe if ALL her skin was the color of pumpkin it would look less.. pumpkin?
I pressed my tongue to my lips and furrowed my brow in deep concentration (Something “Adult Niki” still does – much to the delight of my children. “Look, Mommy is using her brains right now!”). I was doing all that I could to stay within the lines. I wanted to do my best and, snapping the cap back on my marker, I felt I had. Sure, she was orange – but I knew Belle would be proud. Tearing it carefully from my large coloring book, I ran down the stairs.
I went to my parents, first.
“Oh, Niki! This is amazing! I love it!”
“What a work of art!”
They praised it until my cheeks burned red and my heart felt so happy I thought it would burst.
I could have scribbled all over the page in magenta and colored her skin blue and they would have loved it. That’s just how they were. They delighted in my “try,” not just in my “succeed.”
I left them in search of one more person. There was another person I wanted to impress. I hoped he would be proud of me. I hoped he would see the work I had done and delight in it too. I longed to hear him say, “Well done.”
Instead I received these words, “Wow, Niki. What did you do to her skin?”
My heart was shattered.
I knew she looked like a pumpkin, but couldn’t she see what a perfectly colored, stay-in-the-lines orange spray-on tan that was? Couldn’t he see my try?
Running to the room where I had stowed my markers and coloring book, I fell to the floor and curled my knees up under my chin. I don’t know how long I cried. I only remember that, after I had cried every last tear, I got up, folded the picture, and swore to do better next time and get it right.
And here is why I tell that story from my childhood…
When we live to please our Father, we live to please a Father who delights in our “heart motivation,” in our “try” not just in our “success.” And there is freedom there. He asks for simple obedience, not results. If we sing our guts out, but miss a few notes along the way – He LOVES that we tried. If we dance before Him with all our heart – even if we trip over our own feet and look like we are doing a holy ghost “mac-arena” down the aisle – He can’t get enough of it! He LOVES that we went for it. He sees the love behind the uncooked meatballs we tried to make because we heard they were someone’s favorite. He sees the passion behind the prayer we stumble through. He sees the servant’s heart behind our attempt to cut out crafts for the children’s ministry at church (should have been a heart – looked like a duck). And I know He saw the beauty in a little girl’s orange princess. He didn’t just see beauty in it. I bet He loved it. Because like my parents, He delights in our “try,” not just in our success.
Breathe deeply of that truth today, my friend.
Bring your spray-on-tan best to the Father today.
Be brave and obey Him even if you may stumble through it.
Just go for it.
Do whatever He has called you to with all your heart.
And know that when He looks at your simple obedience –
He will be pleased.
Even orange Belles and toddler scribbles make it on our Father’s Fridge.