The term endocrinologist has its root in Latin. It means one who exposes the diabetic for their poor blood sugar control. One who talks about patients in the break room with coworkers over lunches thrown by pharmaceutical reps.
Not really, but that’s my fear.
I make a confession. I saw my diabetic doctor on borrowed time today.
I was that patient. Yes, that person who reschedules her appointment to bide time.
My sly arrangement bought me two extra weeks. My plan was to change my life within those 14 days.
- I’d have blood sugar readings that would cause my glucometer to turn gleefully pink like a mood ring.
- I’d stop supporting the Diet Coke dynasty.
- I’d say adios to my Taco Bell friends who serve me my bean burrito (sans red sauce) with such care through my car window.
But my life didn’t change. And I walked into the office feeling like a failure. I only see her three times a year. And every time I vow to change my life before the next visit.
But today I had this life a-ha. God is not like my doctor. He’s not checking my chart, looking over at me with his bi-speckled-framed eyes. He’s not sighing, plotting a plan for how to get me back on track. He doesn’t wonder when I’m ever going to get it right. (Dr. Wendy, if, on the off chance you’re reading this amidst your crazy, doctor-paced life…I do like you. This isn’t about you. It’s me. [Cue breakup music])
I’ll state the obvious: If I could have changed myself, I would have by now. Believe me. But I can’t. (Do I hear a faint amen?)
God isn’t like my doctor – telling me what to do, how to change…and then checking up with me months later. Rather, God is my very Life. He gives me the power to change. He is intimately involved in my life. And He’s in the process of making me look more and more like Jesus. And He’s using diabetes to do it. Exposing my legalism for the lifeless endeavor that it is. Beckoning me to rest in His strength, in His ability to change me.
From the inside out. Not the other way around.