We met on the elevator. I had noticed him earlier, of course. He was hard to miss. I surreptitiously watched him eat breakfast with his daughter, wondering what their story was. We had a one-minute conversation on the brief ride from the first floor to the second, and then he was gone. I don’t even know his name.
Recently I finished a book about a smuggler. Not just any smuggler, mind you. A man who smuggled Bibles into Communist countries to get them to struggling churches and Christians. In some cases, the government had issued “state Bibles,” which were watered down and heavily edited to reflect state ideology. In other words, not Bibles at all. In other cases, congregations shared between them one single Bible, or even part of a Bible. They hungered desperately for the Word of God in their own hands. Hard to comprehend for me personally, when I look at my bookshelf and see half a dozen different translations of the Bible. The book was God’s Smuggler, and the man was named simply “Brother Andrew.” His experiences were fascinating to read, and each communist country tried to stamp out Christianity in their own way. But one particular ideology scares me more than the others. It’s about the children.
The other day I had a panic attack. It suddenly hit me that I was totally screwing up this whole parenting thing. I wasn’t spending enough quality time with my kids, I wasn’t disciplining well enough, I didn’t hug them enough, I wasn’t teaching them enough responsibility with chores, I wasn’t keeping on top of what they were learning in school… In short, I was generally failing at pretty much every aspect of my motherly duties, and I was pretty sure my kids would be completely messed up for life. Bad parent? Guilty as charged.
I don’t know why I even bother. Trying to corral five children in church by one’s self is not for the faint of heart. And truth be told, by the time I’m halfway through the service I’m usually mad at one or more of said children. I generally hear about half of the sermon, if I’m lucky. I usually have to take out the baby and/or toddler at some point. And to what end? Is it even worth it? Do they even get anything out of the service? Do I? Like I said, I often wonder why I even bother. And yesterday was no exception until something amazing happened.
Last weekend was Homecoming for our town. No, I’m not talking about a high school homecoming game and dance. I mean a town wide, full blown celebration, complete with live entertainment, food and vendor booths set up in the downtown area, picnics, cook-offs, and dancing in the street. No joke. You see, 50 years ago one guy who had since moved to the big city came back here to his hometown to go to church one week and it made such an impression on him that he got a bunch of friends together to go back with him shortly thereafter. They went to church “back home” and had a grand ol’ picnic, and decided they would make an annual tradition of it. 50 years later it’s going stronger than ever. Why? Because home is a very powerful draw.
Recently my cousin and her husband adopted a baby. They had been waiting and praying for a child for a long time, as had their family and friends. It was difficult to wait, difficult not knowing when or even if they would have a child of their own. But at last the wait is over, and their loved ones rejoice with them that they have a son to call their own. Although he was born to a different mother, he is now legally their child in every way. The adoption papers are complete, and he shares their name and their home from here on out. They intentionally went about the adoption process, for you see, there’s no such thing as an unplanned adoption. And that’s a great comfort to me, because I, too, am adopted.
She asks me why I’m crying as I’m holding my newborn. I look into the concerned face of my 2 1/2-year-old and wonder how to answer her question. I’m not crying because I’m sore or overwhelmed or sleep deprived beyond exhaustion. All those things are true, of course, but that’s not why I’m crying. I’m crying because as I gaze at my newborn son, I’m remembering.
Continue reading “The Anatomy of a Mother’s Tears”
Baptism is a dangerous thing. Yes, you read that correctly. But give me a chance to explain. Think about it. What happens in baptism? A person becomes a child of God. That’s a good thing, mind you—a great thing. It’s a gift beyond comparison, one we could never earn on our own merit. But there’s a catch. Someone isn’t happy about this gift, and that someone wants to take that gift away. He will stop at nothing to steal that gift right out from under you. That “someone” is Satan.
Mommy guilt is a powerful thing, as most mothers can tell you. Many of us worry that somehow we’re completely messing things up for our kids. There are so many different books out there telling us how we “should” be parenting, and a lot of us read them only to realize we fall far short. We worry that we’re damaging our kids for life, that they’ll be ruined forever if we do this parenting thing wrong. Hence the painfully true E-Card that says, “Behind every great kid is a mom who’s pretty sure she’s screwing it up.” One of the most encouraging books I’ve read is Mommy Grace: Erasing Your Mommy Guilt by Sheila Shuller Coleman. I really need to re-read that book, because just last week we had a really bad morning, and I felt guilty about it the rest of the day. Let me illustrate, but read on at your own risk…
TruthNotes 