A Home
I was sitting on the couch this evening, pen in hand, underlining sentences in my book. Little sickee Jonah stretched his foot out from under his blanket and into my lap. I looked down at his five tiny toes and my black ink pen. I immediately remembered being a kid, only quite a bit older, 9, 10, 11? I had my feet stretched out in my mom's lap, and she had a black pen and drew tiny little smiley faces on the bottom of each of my toes.
It astonishes me that I was ever that close with her. That I would have my feet stretched in her lap, that we would laugh as my toes wriggled under the tickling pen, that we would laugh again at the one with the crooked smile where my foot jerked and her pen slipped.
I tried to draw on Jonah's toes, but he was feeling too puny to let me do it. So I drew one smiley face on my pointer finger and tried to get him to smile.
It astonishes me that I used to be a teenager and get in my mom's car after school and be sullen and quiet or else go on and on with my stories of the drama for the day. (And you know what takes longer than a kid telling a story? Nothing. Nothing is as long as a kid telling a story.) I never thought to question how I should be when I got in the car because, well, I was just myself, whatever I was feeling.
But I haven't experienced that in a long time--that sensation, that trust, of having someone or some place to go to where you plop down, put your feet up-or in someone's lap--and bare your soul without fear of judgment or repercussions or them using the moment for anything other than to comfort you.
I have this with my husband, yes. We work to create that space for one another and for our kids. And it is good. But I think the difference is that in a parent-child relationship, one is predominately a giver or a receiver. As a child, I received the comfort. There were not expectations in place that I would provide the comfort. At least, not at that stage.
Some of my happiest memories are at my grandparents house where I could fully rest. I could rest because I had no responsibilities. I knew my grandmother would make all the meals, there would be a pot of coffee all day, she would do my laundry and help entertain me, and then leave me alone when I wanted to be by myself. I might go for a walk in the woods or play a card game with them, or watch TV or read a book. I could pick whatever I wanted to do because they were taking care of the necessities. I could trust them to take care of things and to take care of me.
As a parent, life is usually the exact opposite. And there is joy to be had in that provision for someone else, the people you love, who you get to be home for. But sometimes my heart aches for that familiar comfort that only history and closeness can give.
I was listening to an episode of The Next Right Thing podcast with Emily Freeman, and she talked about how she felt like sometimes she was living her life wringing every moment to try and find the lesson that God was teaching her. In relationships or circumstance, suffering or joy, everything was seen only as a cover for the lesson. She said that seeing God as teacher was good, but what she needed to learn was that God is also Father, and he is able to comfort us, to be our refuge, to wrap his arms around us and hold us until we are ready to get up. She said school is good for a time, but sometimes what we really need is a home.
I felt teary-eyed on my walk listening to her words, for that is exactly what I feel like I need. Even if I am not always aware that I am wringing every moment, or trying to peer under the surface for a moral or some kind of concrete guidance, I can see it in how I interact with my kids. I tend to make every moment a teaching moment. Every interaction is ripe for me to teach them something. Jonah will want to stop and pick flowers, and I will ask, "What color are they? Let's count them! We should be gentle with flowers. Flowers need the sun to grow!"
Now those things are not bad to teach him. They are necessary. But instead of stopping and picking flowers with my son, or holding out my hands and receiving the tiny little violets, what I'm actually thinking is, Jonah is going to be the youngest one in preschool. He doesn't know his colors. His brothers knew their colors by now. I never count with him, do I? I should read to him more often. We only read chapter books these days. He hasn't learned to love reading because I have been remiss in my duties as a parent. He is tearing up the flowers for no reason. How will he learn to be gentle if I don't tell him?
I interact with my kids so many times out of fear--fear of being remiss in my duties as their parent. Fear that I will fail to teach them something that will negatively affect them acutely and for the rest of their lives. It's just no way to live.
What my kids need is the same as what I need--a home and a school. A teacher and a Father. Guidance and comfort.
Father, give me the grace to run to you for refuge, to experience true rest in your arms. Send your Spirit to comfort me and give me peace. Help me to see my children as you see them, to be present with them in their enjoyment of everyday things like flowers and bugs and block towers that fall down over and over again. Help me to know when to speak up and when to stay quiet, when to listen and when to pray. Help me to be gentle and firm, a teacher and a mother, as you are.
It astonishes me that I was ever that close with her. That I would have my feet stretched in her lap, that we would laugh as my toes wriggled under the tickling pen, that we would laugh again at the one with the crooked smile where my foot jerked and her pen slipped.
I tried to draw on Jonah's toes, but he was feeling too puny to let me do it. So I drew one smiley face on my pointer finger and tried to get him to smile.
It astonishes me that I used to be a teenager and get in my mom's car after school and be sullen and quiet or else go on and on with my stories of the drama for the day. (And you know what takes longer than a kid telling a story? Nothing. Nothing is as long as a kid telling a story.) I never thought to question how I should be when I got in the car because, well, I was just myself, whatever I was feeling.
But I haven't experienced that in a long time--that sensation, that trust, of having someone or some place to go to where you plop down, put your feet up-or in someone's lap--and bare your soul without fear of judgment or repercussions or them using the moment for anything other than to comfort you.
I have this with my husband, yes. We work to create that space for one another and for our kids. And it is good. But I think the difference is that in a parent-child relationship, one is predominately a giver or a receiver. As a child, I received the comfort. There were not expectations in place that I would provide the comfort. At least, not at that stage.
Some of my happiest memories are at my grandparents house where I could fully rest. I could rest because I had no responsibilities. I knew my grandmother would make all the meals, there would be a pot of coffee all day, she would do my laundry and help entertain me, and then leave me alone when I wanted to be by myself. I might go for a walk in the woods or play a card game with them, or watch TV or read a book. I could pick whatever I wanted to do because they were taking care of the necessities. I could trust them to take care of things and to take care of me.
As a parent, life is usually the exact opposite. And there is joy to be had in that provision for someone else, the people you love, who you get to be home for. But sometimes my heart aches for that familiar comfort that only history and closeness can give.
I was listening to an episode of The Next Right Thing podcast with Emily Freeman, and she talked about how she felt like sometimes she was living her life wringing every moment to try and find the lesson that God was teaching her. In relationships or circumstance, suffering or joy, everything was seen only as a cover for the lesson. She said that seeing God as teacher was good, but what she needed to learn was that God is also Father, and he is able to comfort us, to be our refuge, to wrap his arms around us and hold us until we are ready to get up. She said school is good for a time, but sometimes what we really need is a home.
I felt teary-eyed on my walk listening to her words, for that is exactly what I feel like I need. Even if I am not always aware that I am wringing every moment, or trying to peer under the surface for a moral or some kind of concrete guidance, I can see it in how I interact with my kids. I tend to make every moment a teaching moment. Every interaction is ripe for me to teach them something. Jonah will want to stop and pick flowers, and I will ask, "What color are they? Let's count them! We should be gentle with flowers. Flowers need the sun to grow!"
Now those things are not bad to teach him. They are necessary. But instead of stopping and picking flowers with my son, or holding out my hands and receiving the tiny little violets, what I'm actually thinking is, Jonah is going to be the youngest one in preschool. He doesn't know his colors. His brothers knew their colors by now. I never count with him, do I? I should read to him more often. We only read chapter books these days. He hasn't learned to love reading because I have been remiss in my duties as a parent. He is tearing up the flowers for no reason. How will he learn to be gentle if I don't tell him?
I interact with my kids so many times out of fear--fear of being remiss in my duties as their parent. Fear that I will fail to teach them something that will negatively affect them acutely and for the rest of their lives. It's just no way to live.
What my kids need is the same as what I need--a home and a school. A teacher and a Father. Guidance and comfort.
Father, give me the grace to run to you for refuge, to experience true rest in your arms. Send your Spirit to comfort me and give me peace. Help me to see my children as you see them, to be present with them in their enjoyment of everyday things like flowers and bugs and block towers that fall down over and over again. Help me to know when to speak up and when to stay quiet, when to listen and when to pray. Help me to be gentle and firm, a teacher and a mother, as you are.
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