Raw
A few weeks ago, I took my brood to the park. Park = FUN, and this bright spring day was no different. Then, too soon (as usual), it was time to leave. I aways expect a moderate amount of moaning and groaning when that announcement is made, but most of my children are old enough to grasp the concept of time and are reasonable enough to understand that goodbye doesn’t mean forever, and that the park will, in fact, remain where it is until such time as they can return.
Not so on this day.
On this day, the almost-four-year-old was not having any of it. With a ferocity welling up from the depths of his tunnel-vision, he could not be reasoned with. It was getting late. We had no food with us. He was filthy and needed a bath. He was tired. Sleeping on the ground in the dark was highly overrated. Trust me, child. Trust me! It’s time to go!
Buckled into his car seat and desperately unhappy, he flung epithets at me all the way home:
“I do NOT love you!”
“I want a new mommy!”
“I want to live in different house! Not with you!”
“I will NEVER love you!”
Etc.
I am not the mother of an enormous brood for nothing. I have earned my stripes through many battles that have torn at my soul. I have been in the trenches and lived to tell the tale. Normally, this tirade would have made me roll my eyes and sigh, knowing that it would pass in time and reason would return (as much reason as can be expected from such an age, anyway). This incident, however, struck me as uniquely unfair.
I had just taken him to the park, for pete’s sake! I didn’t have to do it, I could have sat at home and read a book! I could have sedated him with dvds and never shown him the brightness of the clear blue sky and the joy of a slick plastic slide! Instead of being thanked for my generosity, I was being maligned for my cruelty.
Arriving at home, I unstrapped him from his seat and carried him under my arm to his bed. There I told him he could sit until he (I) calmed down. He was still crying. He was still mad. But as I sat quietly with him, suddenly his manner changed. Perhaps it was sheer exhaustion. He looked at me through his tear-filled eyes and said with no small amount of desperation Mommy! I don’t want to be bad anymore!
And that’s when I saw myself.
Raging against God for taking away things that had come from Him in the first place. Angry that I hadn’t had enough time with them. Unable to trust that He knows best. Incapable of believing that His timing is always perfect. Refusing to accept that He has a better plan. Clapping my hands over my ears as He said let Me feed you, let Me clean you up, let Me give you rest; trust Me. I love you. I will make all things beautiful in their time. Trust Me!
I am the child, not quite four years old. I have flung epithets at God. I have raged against the restraints He has placed on me to keep me safe.
And I will probably do it time and again until I reach Home and can be safely set free.
Sitting with my child, I felt enormous pity welling up inside of me. He could not control himself; he didn’t have the power at that moment. Instead of being mad, I was able to respond with mercy. He wanted to be good, he truly did. Raging is so exhausting. He longed for peace and didn’t know how to get it.
So I gave it to him. I took him in my arms and forgave him. I told him I loved him with an everlasting love, no matter how many times he rejected me. That there was nothing he could do that would make me hate him back. That he could yell and scream but it didn’t change the fact that I was his mommy and he was my child and I would give my life for him.
And that’s when I saw God.
My response to my son was a mere shadow of His response to His crippled creation. If I felt sorrow for my son’s helplessness, how much more does He look on us? Not in condemnation, not in consternation, not in judgement or wrath, but with a pity and compassion so all-encompassing that we can only grope around the edges of it. He knows we are dust. And when we ourselves grasp the depths of our own dustiness, God counts it among our greatest victories.
Because it is only then that we can extend that same mercy and grace to others.
Psalm 103:13 & 14
Psalm 46:10
April 18th, 2012 at 5:14 pm
I love how you said “we can only grope around the edges of it”. Can you even imagine when we are with Him and see His fullness? Will we be able to respond? Thank you for this beautiful post.
April 10th, 2012 at 7:52 am
Thank you.
April 6th, 2012 at 7:09 am
You have such a way with words. That was truly beautiful. I am going to print it out and save it.
April 4th, 2012 at 3:41 pm
Okay, you just made YOUR Mommy cry. You know what the overwhelming word in your whole post is? Helplessness. We need to remember that Jesus, in His humanity, spoke these very words on the cross: “My God, My God…WHY have You forsaken me?” How often have we voiced the same? And our Father looks down on us, not tsk-ing over our lack of faith or our downright rebelliousness, but with love and unbelieveable compassion. And just like our little boy, hopefully, we murmur “Daddy, I don’t want to be bad anymore”! This is a GREAT Holy Week meditation.
April 3rd, 2012 at 3:05 am
Beautiful, Jenni. Just…beautiful.
April 2nd, 2012 at 9:17 pm
Thank you. Really, thank you for sharing this. I needed this reminder today.
April 2nd, 2012 at 3:01 pm
BEAUTIFUL!!
April 2nd, 2012 at 2:39 pm
I had that kind of afternoon yesterday too. Except it was a 14yo not born to me, who after being called on rude behavior angrily said that paperwork would never make her my daughter, that she was not my daughter, that she just lived here because she had to til she was grown, along with many other foolish and hateful things. I talked to her about the way a preschooler tries to run in the road, and how his momma runs after him even as he screams and fights and says he hates her. I told her I was that momma, running after her, whether she saw it or not, trying to save her from her own foolishness, trying to direct her on a better path. She didn’t soften. She still hates me. Always has, for the whole almost-five years she has lived here. Wearisome, hard, sad work. I may never see success or any connection with this one. But I am trying and the rest (OK, every scrap of it) is up to God. Your post spoke to me, friend.
Mary, my heart just breaks for your daughter. God is good to give you the words to speak to her, and please believe me when I tell you that they DO make a difference–such a difference–to her, whether it looks like they are or not. For so many years I raged at the people I loved the most while they spoke words of truth to me, and though I know it didn’t look like I was listening, it made all the difference in the end. Keep on keeping on, sweet mama Mary…God will give you the victory, I just know it.
April 2nd, 2012 at 2:32 pm
Sigh… Yes.
April 2nd, 2012 at 1:50 pm
Tears. Yes.
April 2nd, 2012 at 12:54 pm
Great revelation. Thanks for sharing.
April 2nd, 2012 at 5:11 am
Thank you