Let the Little Children Come

One of the things that I love about my church, Christ Church Nashville, is how they love on our children. The pastors all know and care about my children, and although Marella is a bit too young to grasp all of it, Reagan excitedly shouts their name when he sees any of them. He knows he is loved at church. He feels safe and secure at church. He thinks all the pastors and the church staff, from our Senior Pastor and on down, are his friends, and he's right.

A few weeks ago, one of our church members, a man who works with our youth, lost his wife. He showed up at church the next day, and I'm so glad he did. But while adults, myself included, may sometimes get lost in finding the right words to say, or worse, saying nothing out of fear of saying the wrong thing, our children in our church service, gathered around him and prayed for him.

I was standing in line with my husband to receive Communion, and I saw children -- maybe eight or ten of them -- laying their hands on this man and praying for him in his grief, and I lost it. I'm teary just thinking about it.

The faith of a child. Jesus Himself said,  "Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these." (Matt. 19:14)

I've heard that verse a lot, but it's only recently that I really understood it. I stumbled upon another verse, right before that verse, which I'm sure I've read time and time again, but I never really got it until recently.

Matthew 18:10: "See that you do not despise one of these little ones. For I tell you that their angels in heaven always see the face of my Father in heaven."

Did you read that? Did you get that?

"See that you do not despise one of these little ones. For I tell you that their angels in heaven always see the face of my Father in heaven."


Since I've grabbed hold of that verse, almost everything has changed in how I relate to my children. Because, maybe, just maybe, the veil between here and there, between Earth and Heaven, is thinnest when we are with children. If their angels are with my children, and also seeing the Father, then we are in a very real sense touching the face of God when we deal with children.

Isn't that AMAZING?

If the angels that surround my children always see the face of God, then that changes not only the big picture -- how I parent, how I relate to them, how I talk to them -- but it also changes the mundane. That third game of Chutes and Ladders, or that sixth story, or that time at the park when I want to be working suddenly seems like a spiritual act, maybe even an act of worship.

 (photo courtesy of Moments by Moser)

I wish I had Reagan's faith. This morning in Sunday School, when his teacher asked for prayer requests, he prayed that my little toe, which I injured Friday night, would get better. When I'm in a situation where we are giving prayer requests, I'm thinking about friends with illness, friends in grief, orphans all over the world. I'm not thinking about my toe. But to Reagan, it's a simple prayer request (and for the record, it feels much, much better today).

A couple years ago, when Reagan was two or maybe just turned three, a friend was having some vision problems. I told Reagan about it, and he wanted to pray for her, so we did. A couple days later, I told him that her vision problems went away. I was so excited, and he looked at me like he was confused, and said, "But Mommy, of course they did. We prayed for her, remember?"

Yes. 

I'll never, ever know the full story behind my brain tumor scare a couple years ago. I'll never know why two separate doctors told me it was behind my right eye, and why I had excruciating migraines, and then, suddenly, when a third doctor looked at the same scan the first two doctors looked at,  it was at the base of my skull and not behind my eye. 

I'll never know what really happened. It is entirely possible that two doctors read the scan wrong. It is. I don't question that.

But it's also possible that God heard the simple prayers of a two-year-old, who didn't know fancy words to use or the right combination of phrases to try and convince God to listen to him. All he knew was that he was home a lot with his Mommy who had to shut her eyes every night before Daddy got home, because the headaches were so bad, and he wanted the headaches to go away, so he prayed for God to take the tumor away.

I learn so much from my little boy. He has taught me more about grace and trust and faith than I have learned in a lifetime of sermons.

I want to be like Reagan. I want to have faith like him. I want to believe like him. And I want to be with him, and others like him, because maybe it's then that I fully understand the Father heart of God.

"See that you do not despise one of these little ones. For I tell you that their angels in heaven always see the face of my Father in heaven."

The Struggle is Real

The other day, I had my worst parenting moment ever. I thought I had a few bad moments before, but they all paled in comparison to what happened last week.

I lost my temper. At my child.

Completely lost it.

It was not my finest parenting moment.

And I'm not even sure what made it the final tipping point. It wasn't during his 45-minute (yes, 45 very long minutes) temper tantrum, after he lost computer time because he hit me. It wasn't when my kid, who normally eats anything, threw his food. It wasn't when he clung to my clothes as I tried to move through the house, literally hanging on to my leg, my arm, anything he could latch on to.

It was the plastic hammer. He threw the plastic hammer, hitting me not very hard on my left arm, and I lost it.

I screamed and yelled and made him cry. And then I cried.

I couldn't believe that I, the grown-up, had lost it on my very own child. And I sat on the kitchen floor and said I was sorry a hundred times, and then said, more to myself than to him, "I can't do this. I can't be a mother. I. cannot. do. this."

And he stood, in front of me, eye to eye, very solemn and serious, and said, "But I want you to be my Mommy."

The gift of grace.

So I put on his pajamas and brushed his teeth and read him a story and tucked him in, snuggling close for an extra minute. And then I called my friend Beth and ugly-cried into the phone at what a failure I was as a parent.

She assured me that I wasn't, and that every single parent has those moments that I had, and that Reagan wasn't, in fact, scarred for life, and he -- and I -- would be fine in the end. By the time my husband got home, I was sniffling on the couch, a mixture of contrition and the humble awareness that this job was really, really bigger than me.

I went back upstairs to check on Reagan, who I assumed was already asleep. But he wasn't, and he sat up when I walked in and said, "What are you doing, Mommy?" I told him I was just checking on him, and he laid back down and scooted over so I could fit beside him. I nestled in, and he put his hand on my face and said, "Is your heart still sad, Mommy?"

I said, "Yes, a little."

"I love you, Mommy."

The gift of grace.

I've said all along that this job is hard. This job is a million times harder than I expected it to be. The struggle is real.

"I’ve been the one who has had hollering mother meltdowns and wept on bathroom floors and I’ve been the one who has come to be held up by the tender grace of it."*

This is not an excuse. At all. But I have been realizing for some time that something in my life has to give. We are beyond fortunate that we both get to work, without having to pay for child care, thanks to a flexible schedule, fantastic in-laws, and an amazing editor. Blessed beyond blessed beyond blessed.

But ... what that has meant for three years is that my life has been a never-ending cycle of Reagan/work/Reagan/work/Reagan/work. I stopped taking care of me. There wasn't time for me.

 And slowly, over the past three years, what started as a low simmer started to turn into a full boil.

No one told me that it would all happen at the same hallowed time: Mothering is at once the hardest and the holiest and the happiest.*
 
But, as I say all of that, I am fully aware of people who have it so much harder than I do. Single moms or dads, without any help or support from the other parent. Families who have one parent deployed. Families who take care of an elderly parent while juggling the demands of a household. I don't know how they do it. I really, really don't.

But, this was my reality, and it began to wear away at me. Maybe the incident with Reagan would have happened anyway. Maybe it wouldn't have. I don't know. But what I do know is that no one -- and I mean no one -- can prepare you for how never-ending and all-consuming this job really is.

So why am I sharing all of this? Certainly not because I enjoy sharing my parenting failures. But because I think it's time we admit that life, and parenting, isn't the perfect picture we like to portray. Social media, like Facebook, allows us to show our lives the way we want to be perceived. Look at my perfect, well-dressed family! Look at my son and I blowing bubbles together outside! Look at this gourmet meal my family is eating! Look at our perfect day at the beach, right before the toddler tantrum!

The struggle is real.

In an unscientific survey I did following my parental meltdown, 100% of those surveyed (Beth, Alice, Joyce, Heather and Denise) all said that they too had had those moments. We aren't proud of them, of course. But they happen because we are imperfect people trying to raise imperfect children in an imperfect world.

I'm not excusing what I did. I never, ever, ever should have yelled at my child the way I did. It was beyond a reprimand, and beyond me raising my voice so he knows I'm serious. It was a true meltdown because I had reached my limit.

Anger is contagious. And so is grace.*

I'm not proud of it. I hope and pray that I never, ever do that again -- although I'm an imperfect parent trying to raise an imperfect child in an imperfect world, so I realize that my expectation might be too high.

But I do hope that we can start having the dialogue that, despite the image we try to portray, this job is hard. Really, really, really, really hard. Whether we work full-time outside the home or spend our days hosting tea parties for stuffed animals and making homemade play-doh and organic gluten-free oatmeal cookies, parents all struggle to do our best each day with the children we're given. And sometimes we do a really, really, really good job. And sometimes we lose it because we are imperfect people trying to raise imperfect children in an imperfect world.

We've started to accept the lie that busy is better. We fill every second of every minute of every day with things to do. We've adopted the rushed rat race as the best way. We work, we go to that meeting, we take our children to a variety of classes, we rush through dinner, brush teeth, go to bed and start all over again.

It's not working.

I'm a better person when I take some time for myself. It's not wrong to read a book, watch a mindless sitcom or spend 30 minutes chatting with a friend. I don't have to multi-task all the time.

Until we (and by we, I mean me) start taking time for ourselves and tell ourselves we matter, the ones we love the most will continue to get the worst of us. We have to put on our own oxygen masks first. We can't care for others until we care for ourselves.

So. I'm going to work on me, and start taking time for me, so I can be a better parent and wife and person. I cannot give what I don't have. If I'm not rested and taken care of, what happened with Reagan will happen again. And again. And again.

And maybe I could spend a week at an all-inclusive resort in the Caribbean, where I do nothing but eat, sleep and read books, and still snap at my child, because I'm still an imperfect person trying to raise an imperfect child in an imperfect world. I don't know. But I know I owe it to my family to take care of me so I can take care of them.

I never expected that a mother’s labor and delivery never ends — and you never stop having to remember to breathe.*

The struggle is real.

*from A Holy Experience