Slow and Steady Wins the Race

 It was a Monday morning (Mondays. I know.) and I was feeling particularly unsteady, dashing around trying to catch up on things that had fallen behind.  Megan had wet her bed. There were party trays to put away two weeks after the party.  Mount laundry towered high yet again, despite my efforts to keep up.  Several reminders later, Adam continued forgetting his manners at the breakfast table.  While schooling the kids (late start, no less) Luke wrote backwards Ps, an old habit popping in like an unwelcome guest.  Yes, it was just one of those days.  So, I did what I often do in response to those days; I tried to fix it. In a tornado of manic energy, swirling round and round I tried to the fix the Ps, fix the manners, fix the bedding, the party platters, mount laundry...fix, fix, fix. Trying to make all clean and tidy, as if long-term projects could be fixed in mere minutes, and Rome could be built in a day.  But a tornado leaves just one thing in its wake--utter destruction.  I felt it in my heart and worse yet, could see it reflected in the eyes of the kids: I had failed.  Instead of restoring peace and order, my whirlwind of "fixing" had left me completely spent and barren...like a tree bearing no fruit.

Sitting down, wallowing in my own defeat,  I then remembered the prayer I had read earlier that morning:

Divine Teacher, I can be rather picky sometimes, setting up the circumstances and paramenters within which I think you must work.  I can be so self-obsessed, seeing myself as central to all, ignoring what you are doing, slowly and patiently, in this world of human hearts and lives.  The fruits of your spirit are: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.  Today I will live these in gratitude.  Help me be patient with myself and with others when we seem to bear no fruit.  I trust that you are with us and know how to bring about growth in each one.  Amen.  --Ordinary Grace

This.  This is what I had been doing all morning--ignoring God, relying on myself to try and DoItAllRightThisMoment, sprinting like a flailing fool toward the proverbial finish line. Like the classic story The Tortoise and the Hare, I had read to the kids a few weeks back.  The tale that leaves me feeling like a big fat hypocrite, knowing full well that I'm that hare.  But God cares nothing for the fruitless business of hustle and bustle, of hurry and worry and lack of endurance. In His infinite wisdom, He moves slowly, patiently, steadily plodding along in our hearts, working in mysterious ways.  Ever-present, never failing, God is the tortoise walking inside each of us.
 

And when I feel like that barren tree, picked clean with leaves all shriveled brown on the ground, I know that He is there, working within me, teaching in slow and steady whispers.

 Slow and steady wins the race.

Though I cannot see the finish line, nor when and how the race will end, I can rest in the knowledge that He is here, beating out a path of growth within.  Revealing in bits and pieces His wisdom, alleviating the need to sprint and scurry and spin.  We can rest in Him.  And on the days I feel all wrong, like a backwards P in child's scrawl,  I know that slowly, steadily, He is growing me.  Though the growth is often too slow to see, that Wise Tortoise goes right on walking, performing micro-miracles, day by day, within each of us. It's all just a matter of trust, my word for 2013.


I trust that you are with us, and know how to bring about growth in each one. Amen.


So maybe there's hope for this harried hare, after all?  I continue to trust He will keep on plodding along in my heart, encouraging me to, one day, reach victory.

 I am confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.

Phil. 1:6 




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Imperfect Prose

Motherhood is Messy

It's Mother's Day and I wake up at 4am to cat bird's cry, trained to rouse at the faintest sound after 3 months of waking for newborn night feedings.  Falling back to sleep is no use, and I stumble downstairs to put on the coffee.  The sink is full of dirty dishes, spilling over on counter tops.  I look out the pre-dawn window where it's cold and rainy and everything's grey.  My littlest one stirs and my day begins.  Bleary-eyed I fetch him, no doubt with sour expression on my face.  He's all groggy smiles, eyes alit at the sight of my face.  He doesn't seem to mind the bags under my eyes from a bad night's sleep or my grouchy mood to match.  Newborns don't see these things--our fault lines and fractured insides.  They see the best of us--what we strive each day to be.


I blink and the other ones now stir, my three year old girl with the wild hair and pouty frown.  She's feverish and needs new underwear, a stomach virus has taken hold.  My gangly boys tumble downstairs, another one sick, with under-eye bags that match my own.  Though ill and tired, these little ones look at me with tender love in their eyes, faces filled with mom-love.

The rain is pouring down, cold and sad and I feel cold and sad, too.  This Mother's Day I'm mother-less for the fifth year, no mom to phone, no greeting card to write. Bouquets of bright flowers sold by vendors on street corners are not mine to give.  The trees outside nod their sagging heads in agreement, knowing that real motherhood is not all cloudless skies and sunshiny days.

Mom and me, 1989

At the local drugstore sit shelves of cards working hard to sell their facade, their picture-perfect image of what motherhood and Mother's Day should be; all sunshine and smiles, breakfast in bed, lazing in hammocks amidst spring breezes.  But the reality of motherhood is much messier.  Real moms know what the cards don't express, that motherhood is sleepless nights and worried minds, hampers full of dirty underwear all tangled up in stinking piles.  That along with adoring baby faces come endless days of sacrifice, emptying out again and again, saying no to wants while filling child needs. Real moms know that along with wafting aromas of cookies baked in ovens come counter-tops crusted, spilled flour heaped high, puddle of egg alongside.

In the hospital with my firstborn, Luke, 2005

Motherhood is messy.


For motherhood is actually a beautiful mess of blessing and struggle, growth and sacrifice, love found on counter-tops, and in hampers.  Mother's Day isn't really just about smiling faces posed on colorful lawns, smiling pretty for the camera.  Motherhood is so much more.

It's 8pm and by this time I'm ready for bed.  Underwear's now washed but dishes are still piled high.  This Mother's Day has felt more like a marathon than a celebration.  After litanies of infant cries, sick toddler whines, cleaning mess after mess after mess, I'm worn out.  Empty.  Feeling like there's nothing left to give.  I tuck tired children into bed and sit down to feed my youngest one yet again.  He looks up and smiles, nothing but pure love in his eyes.  Adoration.  Not caring to see my exhaustion, frustration and disappointment over a day that started out bad and ended up worse.  He doesn't see the broken mess.  He just sees me, for who I am--a mother just trying her best, over and over again.  And that's enough for him.  I smile back, thankful for love and grace and fresh days ahead, another chance to celebrate this messy beautiful, heart-breaking, heart-strengthening path that motherhood really is.  And maybe that's what Mother's Day is actually about; a day to celebrate the victories along with the failures, the heart-swells with heart-aches, the messy love between mother and child.  And that's worth celebrating.

When Your Christmas Season Doesn't Quite Go as Planned...

I feel defeated, like a failure. We've all been sick--10 days of us coughing, sneezing, wheezing over mugs of hot tea and chicken broth. One day running into another, endless blur of just. getting. through. And though I've been sick along with the rest of them, my three sick kids and husband, still this mother's guilt creeps in, setting up camp in my tired and weary soul. Did I do enough? Could I have been more fun? Could I have been...more? There's been T.V. viewing. Lots of it. One hour running into the next just trying to steal a moment's rest. They've eaten horribly. Pop Tarts for breakfast, frozen food dinners, home cooked meal scattered in between whenever I could muster the strength. And I wonder, "Could I have tried harder?" Might I have soothed brows better, cuddled more? Do these three children of mine feel nurtured enough? The claws of perfection dig deep and I'm left reeling. A mother is supposed to give, be selfless, but what happens when the well of giving runs dry, too parched and weary to flow? Will these children feel less loved?


Oh the plans I had-such grand plans! Plans of baking, spying Christmas lights on winding streets, wreath-lit evening devotions, books read cuddled on couch, carol sings. 10 Days gone from this short Advent season of light, love and preparation. But reality falls short of my expectations and I am left deflated from the disappointment of it all.


I can't get this lost time back, so I try to make the most of it. The boys regain more strength and I pull out a Christmas book of activities to do. Voice still gone, I can't yet read or do much of anything, but this, this we can do. We can draw together, color, create.


Light returns to the boy's eyes as antibiotics run their course. They seem excited to be at the table again, focused on the task at hand. Markers poised they excitedly dive in, creating pictures of Christmas cookies and toy shop windows.


Adam, my four year old, runs over to me, so proud of his completed work. "Mommy, I've made mine glow! Come look in the dark with me to see my picture light up!"



We close the door, room gone all black. We look. Out of the dark appears luminous strokes of light. Beautiful simple child's strokes aglow. We stand together, admiring the light of his creation. "Isn't it beautiful Mommy? Don't you love it?" The streaks of light all run together as eyes leak water at this moment of realization, this beautiful simple lesson.



We are not the perfection, we are not the light. We grasp and flail in the dark, trying to find our way, trying so hard to get things just right. And when we feel like we've failed, He illuminates. Grace, this light that shines through the darkness, illuminating the night, renewing and giving us the strength to begin again. And I know, then and there, it is enough. I have done enough. I let this sink in, drinking up this light in the dark. This season of wonder can be enough all on its own, so long as we let Him illuminate. Cookies and carols and packages of gold are just the extras, the icing. But all that we truly need is to feel His love. To be still and wonder at this miracle birth.


We embrace together in the dark, this beautiful boy of mine and me, basking in The Light. Etching this moment in my memory, I've never felt more filled with the light of Christmas than here and now in this moment of simple joy. And in this moment I am made whole again.