The Day That You Did Not Like Me at All

I would say that we had a pretty smooth day today, as evidenced by the following annotations found on your schoolwork from this morning…

No. No, it was not a smooth day. It was a long, rough day. It was a day that you did not like me at all.

On the day that you did not like me at all, I saw you. I saw the epic struggle of the ages settled into your eight year old eyes, the dissonance between what you want life to be and what life is. I saw your frustration with your own limitations underneath your protests. I saw how unfair it all felt to you, and I know. I know because I was born with the same loathing of anything that feels unfair. The difference is that I’ve had 35 years to learn that my definition of “fair” isn’t always accurate. You don’t have that advantage yet, and you are still at the front of a long road to attain it.

On the day that you did not like me at all, I prayed for you. I prayed at every tense moment and in between. I prayed for your heart and for my sanity and for wisdom and patience and understanding. I prayed that you would find rest from this struggle in Christ. That you would grow in grace and knowledge and truth. That you would see foolishness for what it is. That you would remember and believe that you are fully loved.

On the day that you did not like me at all, I needed Jesus as much as you did. This parenting journey has brought me to the end of myself more than anything in my life. It has brought me face to face with my own weakness and fear and insecurities and selfishness. I’ll let you in on a secret that’s not really a secret at all – I don’t really know what to do 80% of the time. But what I do know is that the Lord of Hosts is with us, and the God of Jacob is our stronghold. I know that He is perfect in all of His ways and that He turns ashes to beauty and that He is the very definition of love. I know that He is our Shepherd and Counselor and King. I know that He redeems us from the pit and that His faithfulness is great and His mercies are new every morning.

On the day that you did not like me at all, I loved you. I loved you imperfectly, yes, but fiercely nonetheless. I loved you, not because of what you do, but because you are mine. I am not disappointed in you at this end of this day; I am for you, and you bring immeasurable joy to my heart.

Tomorrow is a new day with new mercies. No matter what it holds, I am most privileged to be your mom, and to lean into this journey of grace and redemption alongside of you.

I love you today, and I love you tomorrow; I love you as deep as the sea…I love you in joy, and I love you in sorrow; you can always come home to me…

On Guitars and Motherhood

On a hot Friday in July I turned seventeen. I walked in the front door after a spending a week at a youth camp in Laguna Beach and found sitting on the couch a brown acoustic guitar adorned with a pink bow. It was a gift that would change my life.

I still remember and am sure that my parents also remember (bless their souls) those first days and weeks with “Daisy,” as I promptly named her. I remember exactly how my fingers awkwardly walked to the right places on the right strings – index on second string, second fret; middle on first string, third fret; ring on bottom string, third fret – and pressed painfully into the steel as I played my first G-D-Em-C progression over. and over. and over. and over again. “Jesus Lover of my Soul.” There’s a good chance I never played that song again after the seven thousand I played it that first two weeks.

What amazes me now is how I don’t think about it anymore. I see a “G” on a chord sheet and my fingers involuntarily end up at the right places on the right strings. I hear the music fall into the minor third and without thinking I find my fingers falling into place. Not painstakingly walking into place anymore. Not mechanically counting strings and frets. Not pausing between chords to find my way.

The other night I sat in the driver’s seat and sighed. You probably heard me whisper, “I feel like a playwright.”  You probably also had no clue what I meant, but that’s okay. See, I had spent all day writing lines for you. No, honey, you need to say “May I please have that when you are done?” instead of grabbing it out of his hands. Buddy, you need to say it like this - “Where are we going?” instead of “Wheeeeerrrrre are we goooooooooooooooooooiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnggggguuuuhhhhh?” Try it this way. Say this instead. For the love.

There are times when I wonder if it’s going to bear fruit. I want to get to the heart of the matter every time, and I wonder if this rote overwriting of your dialogue is even helpful at all. But then I think about my little aching fingers walking to the notes…and then slowly, slowly, remembering. Remembering where to go, until it was second nature. And then – only then – being able to enjoy the beauty of the music that was being created.

So much of this mothering is maneuvering awkwardly to help you find the right notes. So often I do feel like we are playing the same chord progression for the one hundred millionth time. But this uncomfortable, tedious process – it’s leading to something better. I know it is, because He who began a good work in you will be faithful to complete it until the day of Christ.

So even though sometimes I do sit in the driver’s seat and sigh, or sneak into the craft room and pretend like I just can’t hear World War III breaking out in the living room, I want you to know that I am most privileged to help you find your way in these days. And one day, I pray the notes and chords will be second nature, and the music your lives produce for the King will be just right.

When Mother's Day Ends Unprettily

Sometimes Mother’s Day is full of flowers and lazy afternoons and all the kids smiling and getting along marvelously.

And then sometimes Mother’s Day comes at the end of a very long and intensely busy week and it ends with me falling asleep in the middle of reading a book aloud to you at 7:00 PM and then waking up to hear screaming protests from every.single.bedroom in the house because Daddy is trying to make you go to bed even though you are NOT TIRED AT ALL. And then the next day is Monday and my goodness is it ever Monday. And Monday is full of headaches and whining and quarreling and emotional spirals and a mom who is desperately awaiting the next bedtime.

Motherhood is tired, and sometimes I forget to see the hope.

Motherhood is frustrating, and sometimes I forget to see the point.

Motherhood is messy, and sometimes I forget to see the beauty.

Motherhood is slow, and sometimes I forget how quickly the years will pass.

Motherhood is helpless, and sometimes I forget to lean on grace.

But you. You are spent and sobbing through yawns and fighting sleep with every ounce of your six year old strength tonight. You are outside of me, and I cannot tune your heart or make you see reason. You are outside of me, but you are a part of me, and I love you so much that it aches.

Motherhood is tired, but it is staying up and whispering words of hope and promise into the dark over your sleeping form.

Motherhood is frustrating, but it is embracing the long view and knowing that the good Shepherd never lets the journey go to waste.

Motherhood is messy, but it is willingly entering into the mess beside you and entrusting my mistakes into the hands of a Potter who turns ashes into beauty.

Motherhood is slow, but it is living in the day as long as it is called “today”, and walking by faith the path laid out beforehand.

Motherhood is helpless, but it is not. It is depending on the Helper who loves you better than I ever can. It is crying out every morning for wisdom and every night for mercy.

I know today was a hard day for you. It was hard for me too. But even on a hard Monday, you are full of hope and purpose and beauty and grace. You are full of the image of God and motherhood is growing with you in that image. Motherhood is hard, but I want you to know - even on the hardest Monday after Mother's Day - that you are worth it.

Daily Bread

With temperatures above 80 and a layer of pollen settling on the minivan, it must be February in middle Georgia. Even as I write this and the sun sets behind the fence, the music filling my ears is that of you three and your daddy playing a game of softball in the backyard. A moment of bliss for you and a moment of quiet for me, and I am savoring it in its fullness.

Right now, it is my portion. It is my daily bread.

Give us this day…

To the right of our piano hangs a picture of a twenty-year old girl in a rib-knit tank top and a pair of very impressive cargo pants, sitting on a street corner with a guitar in her hand and a case open for tips on the sidewalk. She is carefree and laughing as she sings to whomever will listen. So happy. Probably because she can spend three hours straight in her dorm room writing songs to her heart’s content without anyone asking her for help to go tee-tee. She didn’t know how that would change over the next decade…

Last week I sat at the piano and tried to play a song that has been writing itself in my heart for a year. I tried to play it for three hours. The same three hours that my dorm room offered for my songs when I was twenty. But can you guess, over those three hours, how many times I actually played through the entire song?

ZERO.

Feeding your apparently starving bellies…playing the referee in a crucial battle over who had “it” first…answering urgent questions about the size of molecules in a carbohydrate…staunching the flow of blood from tongue-wound on the trampoline…lots of really thrilling things, but not finishing a song on the piano.

Give us this day…

At twenty it was uninterrupted time to think and write and sing and contemplate life and the future. At thirty-four it is the very opposite of that. But at every season it is what I need, no less and no more.

Give us this day our daily bread.

Like the children of Israel sometimes we try to gather too much, think that the manna on the ground today won’t be there tomorrow, wonder if the Provider will really keep His promises, if His mercies really are new every morning. But when we do that, the manna just spoils. Because we don’t know what we need today. But He does.

Whatever we need to face this very day, it is exactly what we have. His grace is sufficient. His mercies are new.

I hope that you will always remember that. Because there will be days when your portion seems too heavy, days when death or poverty or loss are crouching at your doorstep. There will be days when your bread seems too mundane, too far from your dreams or expectations. There will be days when the manna feels like exactly what you want and desire and need, and days when it feels like the last thing in the world you want to gather again in the morning.

But it is enough. It is good and acceptable and perfect and enough. And that is because the Giver is good and acceptable and perfect and enough.

So whether I am singing in front of a crowd or wiping your noses or explaining why it wasn't a good idea to poke your own eye with a carrot, whether I am celebrating in joy or grieving beside the grave, I will chase after contentment in the daily bread, the portion that I am given by my Shepherd. He is a good Shepherd, and it is a good portion.

Then Jesus declared, "I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never go hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty."

That Which is Perfect

I walked into the room, the steady rhythm of the ventilator whirring in the background. You looked more like you than I thought you would. I touched your hand and leaned over and talked in your ear. I sang “It is Well” and “Jesus Paid it All” and I threatened to sing Aerosmith’s “Dream On” as loudly as I could if you didn’t wake up. I prayed over you and bossed you around and told you to try to move your arm – no, try harder – try one more time. I told you that a lot of people were there to see you and could you please just…wake…up…

The nurse came in and told me I had to leave now, and so I leaned over and whispered one last time…”I love you…”

The waiting room was full of people who love you too and so we joined hands and prayed and sang. We asked for a miracle and we believed it and we let the words fall from our lips: When peace like a river attendeth my way, when sorrows like sea billows roll…it is well, it is well with my soul… We sang it with our mouths and agreed with it in our hearts.

An hour ago my Dad called and told me the news. It isn’t good, and it’s not what I expected.

I expected a miracle.

Whatever you ask in my name, this I will do, that the Father may be glorified in the Son.

And so we asked. I asked. I asked in Jesus’ name, that you would be healed and live to tell of His glory and sing His praises for the rest of your days here on earth. And I asked for it to be done according to His will, and how could it not?

The will of God…that which is good…

Is this not good? To ask for healing for a husband, a father, a brother, an uncle? To ask the Lord of life to restore life to a broken body? To give opportunity, as Jesus did for the blind beggar, so that that the works of God would be displayed in him?

The will of God…that which is good and acceptable…

Is this not acceptable? To pray, not out of selfishness or worldliness or faithlessness, but to ask as children to a Father? To pray in faith and expectation? To pray to Jehovah Rophe, the God who heals, to do His mighty work for His own name’s sake?

The will of God…that which is good and acceptable…and perfect.

And there I stop, because there I end. I can ask for what is good. I know what is acceptable. But perfect?

Only He knows.

Only He knows the end from the beginning. Only He knows all the possibilities and their outcomes. Only He knows not only what is good, but what is best; not only what is acceptable, but what is perfect.

Today He knew what I did not.

And so we entrust you into the hands of the One who made you, the One who formed your inmost parts, who knit you together in your mother’s womb, the One who loves you more than we ever could and who died to grant you complete and eternal life and healing. We will not lose hope, for hope is an anchor, and it does not depend on the outcomes we can see with our frail eyes. No, hope runs much deeper than what we can fathom. And when our prayers and the answers don’t seem to line up, we will know – we will solidly know – that His will is better than ours.

It is that which is good…that which is acceptable…that which is perfect.