How to Trust God When Life Feels So Unfair

This isn’t how I was supposed to spend this weekend.

I stare at the grimy license plate in my hands.

This isn’t what was supposed to happen at all.

* * * * *

It begins with the Monday morning call from Annemarie.

“Mom, the Murano is making really strange noises, and I’m having a hard time steering it.”

She gets off the freeway. Pulls into a Trader Joe’s parking lot. Calls for a tow truck, which takes the Murano—my beloved Murano—to the dealership. For repairs. (So we think.)

Since the car is still registered in my name, I hop on a Thursday evening flight from SJC to ONT.

(You don’t really want to hear about my four flight delays, my arrival 10 minutes after the rental car facility closes, or my Plan Z hotel shuttle driver just getting off work, do you? I didn’t think so…)

On Friday, as the service manager chronicles all that’s wrong with the Murano, I keep thinking:

It’s only 12 years old. It only has 120,000 miles on it. It’s supposed to last another 8 years and at least another 100K.

But his news does not match my supposed to.

So, we decide to “explore our options” for an inexpensive used car.

The Murano should be worth a few thousand dollars.

The three-digit trade-in value we’re offered does not match my should be.

(And don’t even get me started on the hours of baffling, invasive, utterly overwhelming price “negotiations”!)

By the end of the weekend, Annemarie drives off in a sturdy car with reasonable payments that fit her graduate student budget.

I park my rental next to my Murano and open its glove compartment one last time to empty out all my stuff. On a whim, I grab a screwdriver (yes, I keep a philips and standard in my glove compartment) and remove the back license plate.

It’s personalized, part in tribute to my beloved dog Shatzi, who died last year. Keeshond lovers fondly refer to our dogs as “Kees”; thus, my license plate bragged to the world, “I have a Keeshond to love!” And part private joke with my husband, declaring myself “easy to love” (which I am anything but.)

Standing between what used to be my Murano and my Thrifty rental car, I stare at the grimy license plate in my hands.

This isn’t what was supposed to happen.

* * * * *

Later, at Annemarie’s apartment, I pull the license plate from my purse.

“You bought the Murano right before we moved, didn’t you?” Annemarie asks.

“Yeah, I guess so. We must have bought it right after they offered me the job … three months before moving.”

I’d forgotten that the Murano was brand new when we moved from southern California to the central California coast. Shatzi was new, too. We’d brought her home as a fuzzy puppy six short months before we’d all crowded into the Murano and driven ten hours to our new home.

“It was a good car, Mom. It was a really good car.”

Sensing my tears before they spill over, Annemarie squeezes my hand as I hold the license plate. I can only nod as two competing thoughts wrestle for dominance in my heart:

1. This isn’t what was supposed to happen.
2. So much good has happened in these twelve years.

Suddenly, it becomes clear:

I have a choice to make.

Right here.

Right now.

As tired and hungry and sweaty (did I mention the 113 degree heat?) as I am, I must pick my primary narrative.

Which story does this grimy license plate tell?

1. This isn’t what was supposed to happen.

or

1. So much good has happened in these twelve years.

Both stories are true.

Now I must choose which will one will take the lead: the story of grief? or the story of gratitude?

* * * * *

It’s a choice we all face.

Will we instinctively withdraw in distrust over how unfair our circumstances feel? Or will we intentionally remember all that God has done for us, trusting that he isn’t done with us yet?

This choice is the price we pay for dual citizenship.

Our hearts are wired for heaven, constantly craving the Godly perfection for which we were created, while our earthly lives are laced with unfairness, unfulfilled longings, and loss.

So, we grieve for what should be, knowing that God grieves with us.

We are grateful for what is good, knowing that all good comes from God.

And we choose to let gratitude lead.