I have always hated uncertainty.  When I was just a babe we had a video game called Super Mario Brothers that was played on the pinnacle of technological miracles, the Nintendo. (Way, way back in the late eighties for those of you too young to know that of which I speak.)

On that  game, there was a chance to earn extra men. Now, if you were alive back in those days you understand what a blessing extra men were. For those were the days of real video sportsmanship! Three strikes and you were out…no matter how close you were to beating the game and rescuing the princess…unless you could get those extra men. In fact, playground lore held that beating the Dragon and rescuing the real Princess, was impossible without doing just that! 

Needless to say, as soon as we owned a Nintendo, an obsessive compulsive drive overtook me in which eating, sleeping, and chores must come second to obtaining those fabled extra men. (If there was an Olympic sport for obsessiveness, eight year old Mandy Sikes would have medal-ed. Gold all the way. )

While I enjoyed these extra chances, I hated the uncertainty of how many men I really had since the total of “lives” was denoted by a symbol paired with a number. Did I have thirty men or 13? Should I try for more or go on to face the dreaded Dragon at the end of the game? How many were enough? The ambiguity of where I stood always ruined the fun for me. I couldn’t bear not knowing exactly where I stood in the game. More times than not, I let my fear of the unknown destroy contentment and joy of the game.

The part of me who despised uncertainty at eight hates it even more so at thirty three.  To compound the turmoil, twenty one years down the road, my life holds more uncertainty than I can shake a stick at. ( Bet yours does too.)  So where am I going with this story?

My dog is dying. Last night was spent listening to her struggle to breath.  An ominous rattle set in around 1:30 a.m.  and for the next five hours I just sat beside her. Keeping vigil I believe it’s called. Waiting for the end of her labored breaths and a sad episode in the Sanders family history.  One moment I was willing her to pass on and the next hoping she might not.

During the course of the night I came to the conclusion that eight year old Mandy Sikes and thirty three year old Amanda Sanders still have a few things in common. A deep hatered of the uncertainty of life and a desire for control. Two things that stand in the way of Christian growth for sure and just flat out make everyday a lot harder.

As I am writing this post, Poppy is much improved. Milling around the house, sniffing a Pop- Tart Box expectantly. However, instead of being overjoyed at her apparent change of fortune, I find myself guarded. Suspiciously evaluating her every movement. Mmeasuring each labored breath, while mentally comparing it to her normal healthy gulps of air.  I am tempted to be fearful. Unable to enjoy her energy boost and secretly wondering “Will tonight be the night? Tomorrow?” .

Tempted… but not taken. What Amanda knows, that Mandy did not, is profound. God is the one who is in control. I have nothing to fear. If Poppy lives through this or she doesn’t, it’s out of my hands.  Trying to control just makes me miserable and ruins the sweet moments of life. 

So tonight I will sleep. Knowing that letting go of control isn’t just a good idea, it’s the only way to peace whether you’re eight or thirty three.  God is good, all the time.