Don't Hold Back

A short story about using (cookies) faith to push through uncomfortable situations

When I was a child, my mother had to work a lot. She was raising me on her own, so I spent a lot of time at summer camps. As a friendly and outgoing child, I loved this.

I distinctly remember there was one weeklong camp, called Camp-On-the-Go, where I had more memorable experiences in one week than I had in months at other camps (including my first “boyfriend” - hiiiiii Christian!) We did a new thing every day and also had a “field trip” every day. I had to be about seven years old.

One day, the “thing-of-the-day” was baking chocolate chip cookies. (It is important to remember in this story that I am only seven years old.) Being children, we all loved cookies. However, most of us had absolutely no idea how cookies were made, which I guess was the point of the activity. We were so excited to eat lots and lots of cookies that day.

There was one caveat - we would only be able to eat the cookie we made ourselves. Everyone had one chance to make one cookie. They gave us gloves and walked around with a tub of cookie dough and told us many times that this dough would turn into our cookie (we did not fully understand this.)

It felt like forever until I got my chance to make my cookie. I watched the kids before me put their hand in the mysterious tub and scrunch their faces and pull out a tiny tan ball that looked nothing like a cookie. Weird.

When it came finally by, I expectantly jammed my hand in the bucket and was met with the coldest, mushiest, GROSSEST feeling thing I had ever felt. I hated it! I screeched and yanked my hand out, staring at the counselor in disgust. She just laughed at me. I finally understood why everyone reacted the way they did - whatever this mystery bucket was, it was weird and cold and gross, and I was not going to out my cute little hand back in there.

But then I remembered: this was the only way to get my cookie.

I scanned the table and saw the size of everyone’s dough ball. They were all small. I looked at the counselor. Then the tub. And then the table again. Then I closed my eyes, forced my hand in and scooped out the biggest amount of gunk that I could. She laughed again and applauded me for trying again.

When our cookies came back from the kitchen, my cookie was massive. The girls next to me started crying (…?) because they thought it was not fair that my cookie was bigger than theirs. Our counselor simply explained that my cookie was bigger because I got more dough out of the tub. I watched them cry as I ate my giant cookie. I want to say that I shared it, but I probably did not since they cried about me to the camp counselor instead of just asking me for some (annoying).

As I was sitting at my desk yesterday, God reminded me of this story. I haven’t thought about that camp since I was a kid. He reminded me of all the glee I had when the cookies finished baking and saw my huge cookie. How that happy moment made putting my inside that gross tub so worthwhile. Even though I was a smart kid, I can’t say I did that because I knew it would give me a giant cookie, or that I even really knew what I was doing. Maybe I did it to just be different.

But yesterday, God told me that this is what faith looks like.

• I had an understanding that putting myself in a temporarily uncomfortable situation would yield me results that I was guaranteed to be very happy about. Like for sure.

• I really believed that I would get my cookie from this, and the discomfort would be worth it.

• Somehow, that faith caused me to brace myself, make the most of the next 5 terrible seconds, and pull out the biggest chunk I could from the cold, nasty gunk. There was some sort of belief behind that. And it yielded me joy.

What is your posture? When the way to the promise is uncomfortable? Do you brace for impact to fully embrace and trust God’s process? Or purposefully minimize your suffering, and focus on how to get out of it?

The latter leave you crying, with a small cookie and a jealous heart at those who did not let a moment of discomfort take away from the future joy that was promised by it.

“…Because of the joy awaiting Him, [Jesus] endured the cross, disregarding its shame. Now he is seated in the place of honor beside God’s throne.” Hebrews 12:2