Mom and Dad, Cut Yourself a Break

I saw a quote the other day:

"Your children are the greatest gift God will give to you, and their souls the heaviest responsibility He will place in your hands. Take time with them, teach them to have faith in God. Be a person in whom they can have faith. When you are old, nothing else you've done will have mattered as much." 

What do you think when you read those words? If your children are grown, perhaps you are basking in the light of a job well done; perhaps you are tallying all your mistakes and regrets. If you have children at home, you might be compiling a list of things to change about the way you parent right now; perhaps your heart ponders the sentiment, swelling with love for the souls in your care. Wherever you are in your parenting (or nannying, or grandparenting, or mentoring) role, perspective is so important.

Who better to learn from than Mary, the mother of Jesus? What an amazing woman of faith! What an icon of spirituality! What a flawed and immature human being. We first meet Mary, a young woman -- some say as young as thirteen -- living a quiet life, engaged to a man most believe to be considerably older. Suddenly, an angel appears; she responds with unimaginable affirmation, speaks ten of the most beautiful verses recorded in Scripture, and months later, she delivers the Savior of the world! Talk about your meteoric rise from anonymity! And pressure? Who can imagine what she felt, trying to keep the Messiah safe from colds and broken teeth. Had she taught Him enough about stranger danger? Was He getting enough protein in His diet?

Perspective. It seemed to be God's plan for Jesus to be raised by average, imperfect people who didn't always get it right -- as children of God or as parents -- in a typical home with a roof that may have leaked on occasion.

Twelve years after Jesus' birth, the family had taken the annual trip to Jerusalem for Passover (Luke 2:40-52). As they were traveling home, Joseph and Mary discovered Jesus was not in the caravan. They returned to the city, and found Him three days later, in the synagogue. Upon finding Him, Mary scolded, "Why did You do this to us?!" But, this twelve-year old boy with an interest in His Father's business had done nothing to them. He had not spitefully or maliciously strayed from them. None of this was about her! And neither is/ was the care of our own children. When we have the right perspective -- that we are serving God, raising souls He has placed in our care, privileged to watch as God works in their lives -- it becomes abundantly clear it is not about us.

Years later, a wedding in Cana (John 2:1-11). The wine had run out. For whatever reason, Mary had taken it upon herself to make it her problem. And, by extension, Jesus' problem. How often do we as parents take on more responsibility than we should, filling our calendars with ways to serve at church or on the PTO, and our children get caught up in the crossfire? They need help with a week old assignment due tomorrow, and we snap. A teachable moment, and we lose our cool -- not because it warrants that sort of response, but because we've strayed from our lane, bearing burdens that were never ours to bear, and our children have come to us with theirs. We've lost our perspective. Our responsibility to them has taken a back seat to our desire to "get involved" (with things we, maybe, were never led to be involved with in the first place).

The three-year long ministry of Jesus didn't stop Mary's involvement in her son's life. In Mark 3, we read that Jesus was having some trouble with, not only the religious factions of His day, but His own kinsmen. They thought He was nuts! Mary and Jesus' brothers are included in the scene a few verses later. Did she, too, think He was crazy? Was she present to take Him away to roam the cemeteries like the rest of the possessed or mentally ill? Or was she there to see no harm would come to Him, to whisk Him away to a place safe from negative public opinion or the consequences of being some sort of heretic? As parents we want our children to live in a spotless environment, go to the best schools, meet the right person, choose the best careers. As parents we see the perils of this world lying in wait to derail our children from the plans we have for them. But are they God's plans? Looking back on my own youth, I see just how messed up my childhood was. My parents failed -- they were supposed to; they are human. But God integrates every single foible, every hiccup into His plan, makes it a part of who we are and how our story brings Him glory -- no matter what we perceive as right, or just, or appropriate.

Read the words above again, this time with perspective. We bear a heavy responsibility as parents. But that responsibility was a part of God's plan for a very long time; He is not ignorant of its dynamics. And it comes with grace -- His grace. And lots and lots of it!

A Modern Day Parable

Parables. Jesus used them to teach during His ministry on earth. We find many of them recorded in Scripture. And, I believe, we can find them in the world around us today.

For instance, I arose this morning, ready to celebrate the Lord with my church family. I'd gotten to bed nice and early; woke up with little to no pain. It was gonna be a great day. Until I heard it. Someone had thrown up in the wee hours of the morning. I rushed to the room, cleaned up the offender, and hauled the sheets to the basement. "I'll wash them when we get back from church," I thought. The dog barked; she wanted out. Multiple pairs of feet followed me back up the steps. My entourage -- always close, always looking for food, or entertainment, or instruction. As I was closing the door to the backyard, I heard Mom. She was standing in the hall, hair a mess, comb in hand, and every light still burning in her room. I looked past her to the mermaid blanket on the living room floor. The dog barked; she wanted in. Time to get breakfast on the table. I tripped over one, bumped into another. "Please, everyone, go sit in your spots." Graham crackers with peanut butter, bananas, and string cheese. Not exactly a cover shot for Bon Apetit, but nutritionally sound, all things considered. The dog barked; she wanted out. Mom was especially agitated today, like a drunk girl from Delco. She sat there in mismatched pajamas and the cheap "SEXY" necklace one of the children had picked up from a doctor's office treasure box. She didn't like the coffee, didn't like the oatmeal, pleaded to run the vacuum, and was mystified by the embellishment on the cover of my devotional. The melodies of Crowder, Lauren Daigle, and Zach Williams drifted through the kitchen, adding to the chaos or bringing a calming presence, I wasn't sure which. The dog barked; she wanted in.

Once upon a time, however, things were very different. I'd wake up on a Sunday morning, not at all eager to sit in any pew. Chances are, I'd caught a buzz the night before and the greatest pain I felt lay deep within my soul. Another day, another failed attempt to make everything look flawless and effortless. I'd grind some beans and brew myself the perfect cup of coffee, look around at my immaculate living room and impeccably positioned blinds. No toys lying about; they were all stowed safely, for the most part, within the boxes in which they'd come. Not one block had been lost, not one broken wheel survived the trip back into its proper place. "Nothing lost. Nothing broken," I thought. I'd pat myself on the back for the fine job I was doing as a wife and mother; but inside I felt like such a failure. The house would remain still until the children would rise, bickering and sniping at one another. I'd snap, refusing to spend another minute listening to their animosity; but I did nothing to change it, and it never changed. Breakfast was homemade waffles and jam, bacon, fruit compote, and milk. Just like all good mothers made their perfect little families. The kids would slather greasy butter over it all, pouring syrup and sticking jam everywhere. "Can't you all just act right?!" I'd sit there in my silky robe wondering when I would just get it right. "Nothing lost. Nothing broken," I'd wish. The pain deep within would throb, and the bickering and sniping would start once again.

Two very different times in my life, but in them I see a parable. A parable of life receiving and showing grace, versus a life of trying to get it all right in my own strength. A life in which my focus remains on a God who, everyday, is bringing us through the valleys, over the mountaintops, and through the valleys as they appear again on the landscape of our life. No longer the life in which I focused solely on my wanderings in the flat, dry desert of a self-centered soul. The life I lived many years ago was a life of emptiness, unforgiveness, legalism, fear, and foolishness. I was kidding myself to think I could even know how it should look, much less have the ability to make it look that way. But the life I have been given, the life in which I am surrounded by people at all different stages of their destinies -- some walking out their steps as God has ordered them, or just discovering what God has purposed for them, or even rejecting what He has said -- this is a full life. And this life is not a life in which I see myself as the principle player. Others are surrounded as well by me and thousands of  "mes" all in different stages of our destinies. The parable of a house built on sand, and a house built on a rock -- The Rock. Perhaps it's not such a modern day parable after all.

Fearless and Self-Controlled

One night at work, I encountered a smoking package. While hazardous material clean-ups were in my job description, this one probably warranted a call to the local fire department. Instead, I placed it on a cart and gingerly walked it to the farthest region of the property where I allowed it to "do its thing." Its thing ended about two in the morning when we learned it was some sort of compound that had baked and hardened when it came in contact with a catalyst. Water? Heat? Who knew? But once it cooled to the touch I brought it back into our building and began the paperwork. "Judi, you are absolutely fearless," a coworker said. To the casual observer, perhaps, but on a personal level I was going through one of the most frightening periods of my life. Pressure mounted to the point I couldn't stand another criticism, another suggestion, another word of advice, another deadline. I believed I was constantly under attack, and like a cornered animal, I would strike out thoughtlessly and unpredictably at the very people who were trying to help. I thought my abrasive, and even, offensive exterior would mask the fear that was consuming me.

Lately, I have been doing my daily devotions from a book that is not my usual fare, but it has just ministered to me during this season. God is marvelous that way! Tuesday's topic was "Fear," and the verse was 2 Timothy 1:7:

"God gave us His Spirit. And the Spirit doesn't make us weak and fearful. Instead, the Spirit gives us power and love. He helps us control ourselves."

I knew this verse. I'd read it a dozen times before, even memorized it from the King James. But, this time I "tasted" it:

I am filled with the Holy Spirit. It is the Spirit of God, almighty and powerful. Therefore, I am empowered to do things for the kingdom, things like love. I can love my enemies. I can love those whom others want no part of. I can love those who use me or dismiss me. I can do that because the Holy Spirit bears fruit in me, the fruit of self-control.

That's where God continued to teach me. Fear is a self-preservation mechanism. Fear is based on a perception my very self is in danger; fear is self-focused. All those things that make up who I am -- my hopes, my opinions, my habits -- all those things could be taken from me or altered by people who challenge my time, or my money, or my privacy, or my health, or my position. Fear is knowing that possibility exists and focusing on the "me" that could be lost were this to happen. Not convinced?

What happens when you get the news they're cutting jobs in your office? Or you discover your 14-year old daughter is pregnant? Or your husband is given months to live? Or your sister with dementia can no longer be left alone? Can you feel the panic take your breath? "What ifs" streak through your mind, making your prayers seem to go no further than the ceiling. Can you feel your dreams slipping through your fingers? This is going to change the life you've grown to love. This is going to be uncomfortable. This could ruin everything.

2 Timothy 1:7, however, tells us that the Holy Spirit has been given to believers. It is the very Spirit of the Creator, the good and sovereign God, Jehovah Jireh. It is that Spirit in me that yields self-control. My self is brought under submission that I might go where God wants me to go. My self is of no significance, that I might do what God wants me to do. My self is crucified that I might fulfill the plans God has for me to fulfill. Even if it changes my hopes, my opinions, my habits. Even if it changes who I am -- and, hopefully, it will!

The Christian life is not always the quiet, safe one. The martyrs of centuries past testify to that. But when we allow the Spirit to direct our steps, when we seek to honor the King of kings, fear gives way. The Holy Spirit brings self under control that we might serve people in the worst neighborhoods, love people who may abandon us, minister to those with the deadliest diseases, or simply tell our story -- every wretched or embarrassing detail -- to someone who needs to know what God can do for them. When we know we are safe to love, to risk, to fail, even to give all we have for His glory, that's when things really begin to change -- even our selves.

I Love You, Pookie

I'd say, "Life is funny," but that would be pointing to some abstract, fatalistic idea that life's twists and turns are somehow random or determined by chance. God determines our steps. God holds all of life in His hands. It's just that sometimes He has a very strange -- to us -- way of doing it.

I have spent the last day and a half weeping. On Saturday night, I lost a coworker. He and I had worked together for more than seventeen years; we'd known one another much longer. And though time was responsible for seasoning our relationship, time or chance was not responsible for the depth of friendship we experienced.

When I transferred into John's department years ago, I considered myself to be pretty good at my job. I'd already been with the company many years, and I was reliable and conscientious. After my transfer, I realized just how little I knew. This department was an entirely different world, and John was king of it. He'd been there longer than many of the folks who worked beside him and above him. He knew his job backwards and forwards. He could to get to the root of an issue with a few specific, direct questions, and that same skill enabled him to problem solve just as succinctly. He knew how to give an order and make people follow it. He was one of the quietest people in the room but his presence loomed larger than anyone else's.

I admired those qualities. And I resented them. John could make me feel small with little more than a look. Everything I said or did he retained in some dark corner of his mind for use at the most inconvenient (for me)/ opportune (for him) moments, moments he used to call me out -- publicly. He was gruff, sinister, inappropriate, and downright rude. Banging the phone on people was his trademark, and I used to wish he would one day do it to someone with the power to threaten his job and put him in his place. He could go for days without speaking to anyone, and I went day after day wishing he'd never speak to me again. Every confrontation with him left me feeling completely stupid or insignificant. This was John's world, and he reluctantly tolerated the rest of us in it.

Some time ago, as I was driving home and tears of frustration were, once again, pouring down my face, a strange thought occurred to me: Every time you call out of work, John spends days "punishing" you by only speaking harshly to you, only pointing out your flaws; but every time he's bragging on himself, he says he could do all without you -- he can't have it both ways! I was either valuable to him, or worthless. So which was it? Well, I'd learned a long time ago to put more stock in what people do than in what they say. So, that was it; I chose to believe I was valuable! And I began praying. Lord, if I am to stay here and do this job, You're going to have to handle John, or You're going to have to handle me.

God did both, I'm sure of it. Suddenly, I didn't dread going into work anymore. Suddenly, John was smiling more. Suddenly, I began praying for John because I cared about him. Suddenly, John began speaking a little more softly and entrusting me with more. Suddenly, I saw it as a challenge to get something done before he noticed or before he got the chance to do it himself. Suddenly, John spent the wee hours of the morning joking with me and poking fun. Suddenly, it was fun.

I'll refrain from playing armchair psychologist, except to say, John and I were more alike than we were different. I truly wished for him the joy and peace that I found because of Jesus Christ. I don't know if that ever happened for him. I do know, the man who once was my thorn, my nemesis, was the man I'd grown to love and care for as a friend. The man who made my job unbearable, had mellowed and matured to become one of the primary reasons I went to work each day. The man I'd grown to respect and rely on as my boss, to cherish like a brother, the man who protected me and challenged me, the man who had respect for me but kept me striving to earn it by never letting me know it was there -- is gone. I will never again play "movie quotes" with him (I was terrible, but he always gave me mulligans). I will never again allow -- though I secretly cringed at -- his irreverent, offensive sense of humor. I will never again find my desk drawer filled with thousands of sugar packets or paperclips. I will never again complain about the earworms he loved to play, while smirking behind my computer monitor at the way it made him giggle. I will never again say those words, the words I once spoke sarcastically but came to deeply mean, the words that he would never admit made him smile (but I know they did):

"I love you, Pookie."