Kids

Children are unbelievable. Emma was my firstborn and I just couldn’t get enough of her. I asked the nurses to let her sleep in my bed during my hospital stay and I would just stare at her for hours on end, even after we’d brought her home. Caleb was born one year and ten days later. I was totally into him too, although he slept all day and was awake all night. He was a light. Three and one half years later Anna Grace was born and I left her in the nursery during my hospital stay and asked the doctor if he couldn’t find a reason to keep me there longer. It was peaceful there, in my private room, with my own baby ladies whose sole purpose it was to bring her in when she was hungry and take her out when I was tired. They got paid to tell me that she was fine and I couldn’t hear her fussing from where I slept. Ignorance was bliss, all 36 hours of it.
I am reminded of all the times when I said that “my child will never act like that” or “my child will never look like that” or “my child will always…”. And guess what: My child acts like that, looks like that and never…

Things are out of hand. I maintain the illusion of control some days. But other days I throw my hands up and have to admit that the important things, like what they believe and what their flesh desires and how that will play itself out in adult relationships is completely outside of my control. They have to make their own way and that drives me completely mad. But, would it be better if I could lay out the path in front of them and had a guarantee that they would follow it? I can’t even get to the grocery store without making a complete mess of things. How do I know what they should choose and whether it will turn out right? They have to get to Jesus on their own, in their own way. I cannot map it out for them and if I tried they’d get lost for sure.

A counselor once told me that I needed to be more confident in my parenting. “Quit acting like you don’t know what you’re doing. They’re like animals. They smell fear and they use it to their advantage.” He was right. God gave me these children. God, the creator of the universe, gave me…ME…, these exact children: Emma, Caleb and Anna Grace. I don’t know why he chose me. I don’t know why they weren’t born to Ruth Bell Graham or Gail Queen (my perfect home-schooling Catholic friend who already has 6 of her own, but could do 3 more, no problem) or my sister who loves kids and struggled with infertility. But he chose me. I tell my kids all the time that I’m not perfect. I tell them that I screw up every day and that I make poor choices and that they are suffering the consequences of having me for a mom. But then I say the words that I think God gave me…”If I were the perfect mother you wouldn’t need Jesus.” Is that a copout? I hope that’s not how I use it. I really mean it. I think my weakness points them to Christ. If they can’t depend on me for every good and perfect gift, then they’ll have to go elsewhere.

The real question is this: “Do I believe that God’s got my kids?” Do I really believe that they will find their own way? Do I understand that it will cost me greatly to let them find their own way but that it will cost more if I get in the way? Do I believe that I cannot make up for my own deficiency as a parent? That I can’t try and love them better or more or longer or in a different way to make up for my past mistakes, but that the way I love them is enough and that God will make up the difference?