Ultimately for our Good

We had a firedrill at the daycare the other day. It may have scarred my youngest student for life.

One minute, all my kiddos were sitting around the table, waiting for me to serve lunch, and the next, the buzzer was blaring and the bright strobe light was flashing. Never mind that it only made noise for about two seconds--as is customary to distinguish between a drill and a real emergency. Those were the worst two seconds of a certain almost-three-year-old's existence.

First, he cried. And immediately after exiting the building, the questions started:

"What was that?!"
"It's called a firedrill, Buddy. The sound means it's time to go outside for a few minutes."
"WHY?!"
"We are practicing in case there is a fire."
"A fire?"
"Yes, if it was a real fire, we would be safe outside. But this is just practice."
"It was loud!"
"Well, it's all done now. And we will go inside and have lunch in a minute."

moment of reflection

"Miss Amanda, what was that noise?!"

I can say, without exaggerration, that this child worried and questioned longer than any other child I've ever had to console. It consumed him for hours! First, it dominated the conversation at lunch:

(eyeing the red alarm box on the wall) "Is it doing it again?"
"No, sweetheart, it's all done for today. There is no fire, and practice is over."
"I saw a light!"
"Yes, but it's finished now."
"What WAS that?!"
"You tell me, since we've talked about it already. What was it?"
"It was a loud noise!!!"
"And what does the noise tell us?"
(another student responds with, "It means we go outside for a few minutes.")
Concerned three-year-old says: "I don't like it!"

And, it continued to plague him during our pre-nap story.
Me: "....but the pig cried, 'Not by the hair on my chinny chin chin.' And the wolf became angry."
Three-year-old: "I heard a loud noise."
Me: "It's all done now...'I'll huff and I'll puff...'"

Even an HOUR AND A HALF LATER, as I tried putting him down for his nap, my little worry wart said, "I don't like the loud noise, Miss Amanda."
"I know, Buddy. I don't like it, either. But it's there to keep us safe..."
"Is it all done?"
"Yes, Little One. We will have another firedrill in a month. But, for today, it's all over."
"But, I don't like it!"
"The alarm keeps us safe--even though we don't like the sound. But you don't have to worry about it anymore right now. You can sleep. I promise."
And with much, much effort, he finally settled down.

----

This scenario is why I have no trouble believing in God despite the pain and suffering in this world. No, I'm serious. Because saying that a loving God cannot coexist with pain is like saying loud, scary firedrills cannot occur in the classroom of a teacher that loves her students. If I was concerned about my three-year-old, I would abolish firedrills altogether--since they clearly affect him deeply. How can I continue allowing them monthly?

But, I propose that pain and suffering, like firedrills, are necessary discomforts. They teach us to be on our toes--and they let us know when something is wrong. And, like a scared preschool student who doesn't understand when and why the red box makes a noise, pain forces us simply to trust our teacher with the things out of our control. We wish the noise and bright light would stop altogether, but if the Teacher says it's necessary, we have no choice other than to accept it.

The sweet irony is, learning to trust a trustworthy God ultimately is more comforting than trying to regulate the pain ourselves--the same way my student would have enjoyed a more peaceful lunch and rest time if he simply accepted my words sooner.

Part 2 of the story falls along those lines. My boss came to me during naptime and said, "If the alarms go off again, we don't have to evacuate. They are just testing the sprinklers, which may spark the buzzer." Literally, I almost cried.

"There can be no 'if!' They CAN'T test them today!" I insisted. "I've been telling (Little Buddy) for hours that it's all done. And I promised! If those alarms sound again, it will ruin my credibility and have lasting consequences." I could not have imagined a worse scenario. So I prayed:

Father, the only thing that comforts me when I'm scared and out of control is knowing that You are in control. I wouldn't ask that you remove all "firedrills" from the lives of my students, but I DO ask that you keep the alarms silent for the rest of the day. I need my students to trust me the way I trust You. Please help me keep the promises I made, so that perhaps someday, Little Buddy can transition into trusting You.

The alarms stayed quiet. The little boy slept peacefully, and he seemed less traumatized in general by the time he woke up. But, most importantly, he is beginning to learn that he can believe Miss Amanda when she promises things will be "okay" (even though she won't promise to stop the firedrills forever). And soon, rather than trying to "figure out" whether the alarm will sound or worrying for hours after it's finished, he will be able to ask me--ONE TIME--if the situation is under contorl, and he will believe me when I say it is...

That level of trust make firedrills of all kinds ultimately for our good.