Well, moving on . . . D. was such a delight that, two
years later, we decided to add a sibling.
We always said that four sounded like the perfect number. And God blessed us with another boy! (And a successful, rather pleasant homebirth,
even if it was sixteen hours of labor!
And interestingly, I knew that I was pregnant with him the day after he
was conceived. It’s the only pregnancy
when I knew right away. And my friend
Jen – I’ll talk about her in a bit – knew right away the next day with her
second pregnancy, too. Weird!)
And I really did want another boy, too. As the only girl in the family, I had often
wished for a sister. So it was very
important to me that my first two kids were the same gender. Then they could be playmates. Not that a brother and sister can’t be, but I
would rather have another boy than have one of each.
Our H. came into the world with a feisty scream. (And he made me sicker than D. during the
pregnancy. Thanks, kid. Just had to start competing with your brother
early, huh?). And, likewise, his
personality is a little feistier. He was not as easy going, and he was a bit more demanding. Compared to our first, we said that he was a
firecracker.
And he would bust out in a screaming fit a few
times for no reason. This, of course,
would panic me and send me on a search over his whole body to see if anything
was pinched or red or blue. (Now, I
would say that it was probably trapped gas.)
And he cried more than D. did.
Whenever he got crying really hard, we would grab a rag and get
ready. He would work himself up so much
that he would throw up nearly every time.
We tease him about it to this day.
He loves hearing the sound effects.
But, other than that, life was still relatively easy. We adjusted just fine to having children. We were homebodies anyway, so that part was
easy. And we had always been pretty
cautious with our spending, so we didn’t have bad spending habits to curb.
And Jason adjusted well and turned out to be a wonderful
father. I think having boys was quite a
blessing, because Jason has playmates now and they share a common interest in
toys. It makes Christmas shopping easy! (And, once again, I love it that Jason is
such a kid at heart. He’s great with
young children, and it’s fun to watch him run around in the yard with them!)
With two small ones at home now, I decided to quit my
part-time counseling job and stay home.
I planned on going back someday, but I wanted to be home while the kids
were young. Actually, to be honest, I
didn’t really want to stay home at first.
After all, I got my counseling license so that I could counsel. Not stay home and change poopy diapers. I even half-joked to Jason that I would work
and he could be the stay-at-home dad.
So staying home full-time was a little bit of an
adjustment. For the first few months, I
felt like something was missing. Like I
just had a limb amputated, and I kept reaching for it but couldn’t grasp it. I felt like I was supposed to be doing
something, but couldn’t figure out what it was.
Was there somewhere I was supposed to be? What time was it? What day was it? And when was the last time I took a
shower?
But after a few months of feeling like I was wandering
through life aimlessly, I was getting used to not having to be anywhere. And once I accepted this as my responsibility
in life, I started to really love it. I
came to embrace it and to see it as my job, my role . . . my mission
field.
I had once stood on a small island in the middle of aparadise and vowed that I would be back to missions one day. I thought of Africa, Europe, Jamaica. I never thought of my living room or my
backyard. But that had become my mission
field. And it was more than just raising
kids! It was being there to feed their
hearts and their bodies, to kiss their “owies” and to celebrate their first
foods, first steps, first words. It was
building their character and living in a way that would draw them to Christ,
praying for their salvation and helping them to understand God’s Word. It was raising them (hopefully, prayerfully)
to be godly, to stand by their convictions in a hostile world, to keep their
faith in the face of adversity, and to reflect Christ and draw others to the
Lord. This is no small task. But I couldn’t see myself doing anything
else! PNG didn’t hold a candle to
this.
The most basic, fundamental, non-negotiable task that God
gave us is to go out and make disciples.
Sometimes that means by remaining single or childless and filling a role
that only the single and childless can fill.
Sometimes, it’s by going into the mission field in other countries or in
our own country. Always, it’s by living
your life in a God-glorifying way so that others may see the light of Christ in
you. But, sometimes, it’s just by
raising children in a godly home, so that we can build up another generation of
God-fearing people. Never diminish the
importance of this humble, humbling task.
And for a while, I felt really good in my role as a
mother. Of course, I had moments when I
did things wrong: when I disciplined before getting the whole story, when I
yelled more than I wanted to, when I didn’t put enough thought into dinner so
we ended up with cereal or toaster waffles again. (I loved toaster waffles!) Or my favorite, the thing I said I’d never do
. . .
I would never just say “Mmm-Hmmm!” when my child
was talking to me, while my mind was elsewhere.
No! I was always going to make sure that I gave my child my full undivided
attention, so that I didn’t scar them for life when they felt that I wasn’t
really listening to them.
But, honestly . . . that was one of the first things to
go. After being interrupted for the
eighth time in three minutes with, “Mom, watch me . . . watch me . . . watch me
. . . ,” I realized that “Mmm-Hmmm” was a perfectly acceptable response.
“Mom, he won’t let go of my shirt.”
“Mmm-Hmmm!”
“Mom, want to hear another funny joke?”
“Mmm-Hmmm!”
“Mom, look at the next piece of Thomas track that I put
down.”
“Mmm-Hmmm!”
“Mom, he’s holding onto my leg!”
“Mmm-Hmmm!”
“Mom, he took that toy from me when I was going for it,
even though it was on the ground and I didn’t want to play with it until I saw
him going for it first.”
“Mmm-Hmmm!”
“Mom. Come wipe my
butt! Moooom? Come wipe my buuuuuttttt!”
“Mmm-Hmmm! . . . No, wait! Sorry, I’m coming!”
It’s really a matter of practicality. Children have an amazing ability to demand
your attention every few seconds for one reason or another. Especially so when you have more than one
child and they form an attention-demanding brigade. It’s like having a rotating door in your
house where one kid comes in as the other goes out. Or they all cram in at one time and make your
head want to explode. And it’s just not
practical to keep stopping what you are doing to give your full undivided
attention when a simple “Mmm-Hmmm” usually suffices. (Wouldn’t it be great to actually find this
advice in a parenting book!)
But if - after my “Mmm-Hmmm” - I get an incredulous
response from one of my kids or a long pause with a confused look then I know
that “Mmm-Hmmm” is not going to work. So
I sit up and pay more attention to what they are saying. But it does help to weed out the times that
they are just looking for a little acknowledgement. (Yes, I know!
Once again, I’m awful. But I bet
my kids will read this with a little more understanding after they have kids of
their own. Hee-hee-hee. Giggle, giggle, giggle!)
Although I must warn you that when you do this, keep your
wits about you. D. came up to me once
as a toddler, crying about his finger. I
was busy and didn’t want to be bothered by a little owie.
“Mmm-Hmmm,” I said, as I pulled his finger to my lips and
gave it a big, exaggerated kiss to make it all better. His horrified look and the smell that was
beginning to register in my brain told me something was not quite right. His owie wasn’t an owie at all. It was what he found in his messy diaper when
he stuck his finger in. I’ve never
washed my lips so much in my life.
Anyway, as my second son got older, he got a little
easier to manage. But he did have a way
of keeping things lively. He had a
fearlessness that terrified me and kept me on high alert. At the playground, I had to watch him closely
because he wouldn’t think twice about walking off the end of a six-foot-high
platform. And he would leap from the top
of our staircase, trusting us to catch him while we walked behind him, even
though we had no idea he was going to jump.
He kept us on edge.
But so far, we thankfully had no necessary trips to the
emergency room, our health was good, and things were going smoothly. And I felt really confident. (May as well just get used to seeing this
word. It’s kind of the whole point of
the book.) I was handling things well
and the Lord was good to us!
And then . . . we had our third son! Maybe it’s just having three kids to manage
(or maybe it really is just him), but our third has been more intense than the
other two combined. If my second was a
firecracker, then my third was an atomic bomb.
I believe that the moment of his birth, he began screaming and
immediately started climbing furniture and throwing things. And we haven’t been able to get him down
since.
They say that you can tell the temperament of your child
within the first few days of their lives. D. was incredibly sweet and quiet and had a wide-eyed innocent look
that he never really lost. H. had a
look of amusement and feistiness, like “Oh, am I gonna have fun with you when I
get mobile.” But, R. . . . Ahhh, my
dear, wonderful R. . . . had a look that said, “You better hang on tight,
‘cuz I’m going to blow . . . your world . . . apart!”
He had a look of mischief in his eyes that was unmatched
by his brothers. It made his eyes
dance. He was not even a week old when I
noticed it and said to my husband, “Uh, oh, this one has a look of pure stinker
in his eyes.” (I really did say
that. A week old!) It was the way his eyes smiled with a
rascally-gleam and how he would scan the room rapidly. I could almost hear him thinking, What can
I do? What can I get into and
destroy? Oooh, the minute I get up and
start moving, you’ll be in trouble. And
he didn’t prove us wrong!
And then, there’s that scream that he does. It’s a long, loud primal scream that reaches
an ear-shattering, glass-breaking pitch.
He’s hurt more than one of our eardrums.
He does it randomly throughout the day for any reason whatsoever: when
he’s happy, sad, frustrated, angry, excited, surprised. It doesn’t matter.
For the first year-and-a-half, I would be doing the
dishes, going to the bathroom or whatever, and I would hear this scream. I would come flying out from where I was,
panting and terrified and fully expecting to see a hand lying on the ground or
an eyeball rolling across the floor. But
no! He just wanted a toy his brother
had.
I tried again and again to break him of his screaming
habit before I finally just laid down in exhaustion and gave up. It is so not
by-the-book, but when I hear him scream now, I just mumble a defeated, “R.,
do not scream. That is owies for the
ears.” And then I walk away or I ignore
him. I’m sure more than one guest has
thought, What a terrible mother! when I didn’t run in to check on him
after hearing his blood-curdling scream coming from the other room. I like to think that I just got smart and
decided to put my energy into a battle I could win. Chalk one up for the two-year-old.
I also decided to relax in certain other areas that I
just couldn’t control as well as I could when I had just one or two
children. This explains why Jason came
home from work one day and asked, “Why is our two-year-old playing with the
pizza cutter?”
There was R. in the other room, happily hacking away
at a cardboard box and making tracks in the carpet with the pizza cutter. I knew it didn’t look good to let a small
child run around with the pizza cutter, but I knew that he couldn’t really hurt
anything with it. (I hoped!) Sure, it can cut pizza, but it’s really not that
sharp.
“Because it keeps him happy and quiet, and I needed him
out of the kitchen so I could finish dinner.”
It sounded logical to me. So what
if my first born wasn’t allowed to touch a regular fork until he was three
years old because he might poke an eye out?
So what if my second couldn’t walk with a popsicle in his mouth because
he might fall over and stab his throat with the stick? I think, for better or worse, you just relax
more with your third (read: you have less time and mental energy to care
anymore).
He’s also been able to (not allowed to, but able to
because I can’t catch him in the act) write all over any paper or table or toy
he finds with a pen, run around with my car keys, use scissors, eat in the
living room (Ok, maybe I do allow him to do that one, but only because
it keeps him out of the kitchen when I’m busy.
It drives my husband nuts.), and play with a myriad of other non-toys
that my first two weren’t allowed to have: garden rakes, shovels, can openers,
my whisks, my tongs, and my vegetable-steamer baskets (they do make cool
UFO’s). All because he was so much more
skilled at getting his way with his screaming and persistence.
Isn’t it Biblical that we are supposed to persevere till we
finally get what we are working towards?
I believe the verse has to do with running the race to get to the end,
persevering until you finish? And, boy,
does R. “run every race” to win. I
think that I just missed the part of the verse that said I’d be running after
him all day.
You know how they say having children changes
everything! Well, they weren’t
wrong. It really is so true in so many
ways. I used to spend hours getting
ready . . . curling my hair and teasing my bangs up into a big poof back in the
80’s and carefully applying the full arsenal of eye-shadow, blush, lipstick,
and mascara in the 90’s. But the
00’s? Those will be years of no make-up,
unbrushed hair, and spots of food and baby-spit all over my clothes. Sometimes, I don’t even notice it anymore.
I’ve actually gotten good at just shrugging and saying,
“Oh well, that’s what happens when you’ve got little ones!” and then getting on
with life. And then I longingly look at
all the mothers who have time to do up their hair and wear cute, girly things
as they sit and talk about life and dreams and hobbies.
By comparison, I’m the spit-covered, frizzy-haired, “I
don’t think the elevator goes all the way to the top floor” woman just trying
to get her kids across the parking lot safely and remember where she
parked the car (while trying to make it look like I really do know where it is,
as I rapidly scan for any sign of it and pray that I don’t pass it up and have
to back-track).
But I wouldn’t trade a minute of my life as a mom for all
the clean shirts and good-hair days in the world. It has been and still is the most rewarding
job in the world. But it’s not an easy
one, and it’s not one to be taken lightly.
Be not deceived! Motherhood is
more difficult than any other job out there by far. (Ok, I haven’t tried all jobs. And I guess being
a brain surgeon or an engineer for NASA would be harder! It’s just an expression.)
But it is one of the longest jobs in the world. After all, it’s the only job in the world that
takes at least eighteen years. And even
then, it’s still not over. (Thank
God! Or I’d be really heartbroken!) A mother’s job (and a father’s, of course) is
to make a fully-functioning, well-adjusted adult out of a twenty-one-inch tall,
seven-pound, naked, screaming bundle of pure will and stubbornness. (I’m not exaggerating. Have you ever seen an eight-month-old fight
limb for limb to keep the piece of paper in his mouth that you are trying to
take away? Nothing makes a baby angrier
than taking away the paper they are chewing on.
And they will take you to the mat on everything. No wonder moms are tired.)
I liken raising kids to building a skyscraper with
Legos. Every day, you wake up at the
crack of dawn to begin laying down layer after layer after layer of tiny,
little blocks. Over and over again,
endless stacking! And every night you go
to bed going, “What did I accomplish today?” And then you get to wake up the next day and
do it all over again. It never
looks like it got any taller.
But eighteen patient, tedious years of this - day after
day, Lego after Lego - and you will be able to stand back and see what you
couldn’t see during the daily grind: a magnificent building standing tall and
strong. And you’ll say, “It was worth
it.” This job is not for the faint of
heart.
I don’t know about you, but I have always been a bit of a
pessimist when it comes to time. Whereas
others may think that their life is just beginning when they turn sixteen or
twenty-one or twenty-five, I mark my birthdays by thinking, Wow, a fifth or
a fourth or a quarter of my life is already over! And when I hit thirty, forget it! I’ve already got one toe in the grave. (I’m depressing, I know.) I’ve always felt time was slipping away at an
incredible rate. And it got a whole lot
faster with children. Eighteen years to
raise kids? That’s just not enough
time!
Every few years as my sons get older now, I think, Oh,
no! He’s already a fifth of a way to
being on his own, or a quarter of the way to being on his own. And now, with my firstborn, it’s almost
halfway. He’s only eight (as I write
this in 2008), but I am already having freak-out moments when I realize that he
is growing too fast. And some days I
forget to hug him with conviction and strength, and I can’t get those days
back.
It saddens me to think about how I’ll never feel his
chubby little arms around my neck anymore.
He had these great sausage-rolls for arms. And when he was a toddler, he would wake up
next to me every morning, put his fat, little arms around my neck, smile and
say, “Morning, Mom-mom!” Every
morning! I loved it and it never got
old!
But he did. And
now, I won’t get any of those moments again.
I actually snuck into his room the other night and just laid my cheek against
his while he slept, listening to and feeling his breathing. I loved doing that when they were
little. While they slept, they would
finally be still long enough so that I could have a conscious moment of just
being near them.
Paradoxically, the years might fly by while the days
themselves can seem sooooo long, especially with three young children indoors
on cold winter days in a small two-bedroom rental (which is how it is as I
write this). These are the kind of days
where I see myself opening up the front door, picking up my child like a
suitcase and throwing them out into the front yard (you know how you see people
or puppets getting thrown out the front door of some shows - flying through the
air?) while I yell, “And don’t come back in until you run off some of that
energy!”
And you know you’ve got cabin fever when you hide out in
the bathroom just to get a few moments to yourself. I’ll be washing my hands in the bathroom when
I suddenly realize that no one is looking for me or calling my name. It’s peaceful! And I know that the moment they see me, they
will remember that they were fighting about something or desperately in need a
snack. So, sometimes, I just hunker down
in the bathroom for a few more minutes of peace.
I’m sure it would look pretty amusing from an overhead
view. There’s Mom, waiting on the toilet
seat (closed, of course), holding her breath and looking like a nervous, caged
animal as she tries to enjoy as many quiet moments as she can, while the
children are doing God-knows-what throughout the house. But, hey, at least they are not looking for
me.
I’ve been thinking that I should do what the men do -
bring something with me to do in there.
Then I can get a pass for twenty minutes, too. I should bring a book I’m reading or a
blanket I’m crocheting. Then when one of
the kids or my husband calls me, I can be like, “Sorry! You’ll have to wait. I’m going to the bathroom.”
But as moms, we are not as fortunate. Most moms I know are speed pee-ers, as though
it were an Olympic sport. They can be in
and out of the bathroom in ten seconds flat, and that includes washing
hands. We’ve trained for those moments
since the first child came. It’s a
finely-honed skill. We are unzipping our
pants before we even get to the bathroom door.
One friend of mine told me how she was so rushed that she was going to
start washing her hands while sitting on the toilet, before she realized
that it wouldn’t work that way.
And if hiding in the bathroom for a few minutes is a mom’s
idea of a break, then it’s a tropical vacation when you can take a shower
without having to play peek-a-boo behind the curtain or referee a fight while
trying to shave your legs. That is, if
you ever have the rare extra minutes to actually shave your legs. I have found that once the hair gets past a
certain point, it’s kind of soft and silky.
So why bother? (You think I’m
kidding? I’m not saying it’s a good or
desirable thing. It’s just that I don’t
really ever wear skirts, and so unless I’m in shorts, I don’t have to shave. My poor husband gets to look at my man-legs
all winter!)
For the most part, having children just makes you feel
more alive. But there are those days
that can drain the life out of you. Days
that feel like the same day over and over again: washing dishes, cleaning
clothes, making food, washing dishes, wiping noses, making food, etc., etc.,
etc. These are the days when you ask
yourself if anything you do really matters, if you are doing anything that will
have any lasting impact. Is this all there is to life? Am I destined to live a monotonous,
flavorless existence serving others, striving for “more” or “better,” and yet
never getting ahead? How do I honor God
in the daily grind of life?
My college roommate, Jen, (one of my best friends to this
day) was having one of those days of contemplation. One of those
How-did-I-get-here-and-what-am-I-doing-with-my-life days. (Ironically, both of us have three boys nearly
the same ages!) And she sent me an email
about it. With her permission, let me
give it to you in her own words.
Well,
here I sit, a lowly wife and mother of three boys, no degree, no career. I sit
here with a heavy heart wishing to share my thoughts to the world. Will I be speaking to multitudes? Never. Likely no one will ever hear my thoughts, or
at least take them to heart. Possibly,
some may for a moment, and then go back to their lives, pondering what they can
do to prove to the world their love and dedication to God, as if it is a
competition. While I sit here a lowly
wife and mother of three boys, no degree, no career, wishing to share my
thoughts to the world. Who will hear?
I
sit here not in quietness, since the kids are making their usual noises, you
know the kind boys make when they’re together having fun. I still find a moment to slip away and speak
to God. I ask, “Why is it no one sees my
love and dedication to you, Lord? Have I
not done enough? Should I become a
missionary overseas, Lord? Would that prove my love and dedication to you,
Lord? Should I get a ministry degree and
get a job in a church? I could plant so
many seeds. This would surely prove my
love and dedication to you, Lord. Should
I get involved in an organization that feeds the hungry? Should I become President, Lord, so I can let
my light shine across the nation? What
is it, Lord? What can I possibly do to prove my love and dedication to
you?”
Questions,
questions. I sit here calming my newborn
back to sleep, the boys still playing and making their typical noises. I strain
my ears to hear some response from God.
A calling that would be above any other calling.
Then
in a still, small voice I hear:
“My
child, these questions come from insecurities.
The world has made you ask these questions. You know in your heart you are right where I
have called you to be.
Hear
me now - my words of encouragement. Just
between you and me, are you not a missionary to three little boys every day?
Have you not taught many children in your 7 years commitment as a Sunday School
teacher? Do you not feed the hungry
every morning, noon, and night? Have you not used your voice, my
politically-empowered child, to shine light on values and what could truly
change the world for the better? You have planted seeds, my child, seeds you
may never see grow, but they are out there.
Possibly some may be missionaries, youth ministers, ambassadors, or even
President of the United States.”
I
ponder these words for a moment and an overwhelming sense of pride comes over
me. I can’t wait to run and tell the
world what I have done to show my love and dedication to God. Surely this will prove to the world my love
and dedication to you, Lord.
Suddenly,
flashes of insecurity consume me. I
reflect on my past short-comings. Like
the times I have taken off from teaching Sunday School to care for my
newborn. That must mean I am less
dedicated to God during those times. Also, I have not always cooked wholesome
meals for my family. We have had many
pizza nights recently. As for my
political agenda, I’m not so well spoken
and I’m sure I’ve offended many. I’m
sure my light was more of a flicker than a lighthouse beam. I could have done so much better, Lord.
As
my mind fills with thoughts of failure. I feel a sense of inadequacy with the calling I have. I am just not good enough at these
things. I question that maybe I could
prove myself better by achieving a title, joining a ministry, and saving the
world.
God
speaks to my heart asking, “Are you forgetting my Son was a carpenter. Did he let that hinder him from being the
ultimate light of the world?”
I
think to myself, “Oh yeah! Good point! But…” and God stops me.
“My
child, you have nothing to prove to the world.
You are mine and you are right where I’ve called you to be.”
With
hesitancy I allow these words to sink in until slowly my heart begins to
believe. I gradually feel a peace come
over me and a renewed strength. Yes, I
am a child of God. I may not be perfect,
but he knows my love and dedication to him. The world needs no proof! None at all!
P.S.
Thank you, God. Thank You.
(Can you see why I love her!) Motherhood is difficult. It is a long, behind-the-scenes job filled
with insecurities, doubt, sometimes temporary un-fulfillment, and very little recognition. And the only ones who really seem to benefit
from it are the tiny handful of people under your roof. And they are not always thankful. The lesson I learned in PNG about doing our
job for God’s glory and not our own, about working and serving without any
recognition or praise, was coming alive for me.
But I believe it’s what God intended when He planned the
family. He intended that a mother and a
father sacrifice and give of themselves to raise their children, to “live
Christ” for them, so that their kids would grow up knowing something about who
God is and how much He loves us and sacrifices for us, just so that we can have
a relationship with Him. This is the job
that He calls many, many people to do, regardless of what the world says or
offers.
Occasionally, the lure of “worldly success” calls to me
again. Usually, it’s when I hear
references to counselors from someone or on television. And I think, Oh, I can be that counselor
to someone. I can help people sort out
their thoughts and problems. I love doing
that and I have that gift. (At least, I
have the license.) I could help so many
people . . . have my name out there like “You know, my counselor is Heather and
she’s fantastic! “
But then I think about my children. And I remind myself that I could be someone
to the world or I could be the world to someone. (Well, a few “someones” actually - those who
call me “Mom,” as well as the one who calls me “Honey.”) The point is, if I’m called to be home with
my children then that’s where I need to be.
No one can take the place of Mom-mom.
There is nothing insignificant about that role, no matter what the world
says. And I need to glorify God as much
as I can wherever He puts me. This means
being the best Mom I can be by daily seeking after God and asking for His help,
His forgiveness, His guidance, and His strength. Because I can’t do it on my own. And there is no shame in that!
For a few years in college, I babysat for a mother of
four kids. She had a daughter and then,
a few years later, she had triplets. And
I asked her once, “When do you feel like you’re grown up and know what you are
doing?” And I never forgot what she
said, because it was so simply profound to me at the time.
“You never do!” she said, very matter-of-factly, with no
shame or embarrassment. And I have come
to believe it, too. I think a sign that
you are growing up is that you realize that you know less now than you did when
you were younger and “knew it all.” (Or
as I like to say, “The older you get, the more you learn, the less you
know.” Except when it comes to the
Bible, of course. That truth always
remains the same.)
Even though I’m in my thirties now (and thirty was old
when I was a kid), I still feel sometimes as though I am hovering somewhere
between childhood and adulthood. Is this
how young some of my teachers were when I thought that they were seasoned
adults? When can I call myself an adult
without snickering? I feel like I’m just
a kid playing dress-up in adult clothes.
I think we never outgrow our need for someone bigger and
smarter than us to come and take care of us and to watch out for us; because
the world can be big and scary, and I don’t always (or really ever) know what I
am doing.
Which is where my faith in God really comes in. I’m not alone in this world. I didn’t hit eighteen, get kicked into
adulthood and told, “Okay, you’re all grown up.
You’re an ‘adult’ now. Get out
there by yourself and good luck.”
I think that a toddler shows they are growing up when
they get to the point where they can say, “I know what I’m doing. I do it myself. I don’t need your help.”
But an adult shows that they are growing up when they get
to the point where they can say, “I don’t know what I’m doing. I can’t do it myself. I need Your help!”
Some may not like the idea of being accountable to or
under the “thumb” of the God of the universe or of running to Him for
help. But I find it very comforting. (Although sometimes I do fight it. A lot!)
It gives me a sense of security and peace to know that I don’t have to
have all the answers. I’m not left here
to navigate this great, big world all on my own. I always say that I don’t know how people
handle life without knowing God. It
seems so big and hopeless and scary at times.
However, it wasn’t a natural thing for me to feel that I
needed God. It’s one thing to have the
luxury of wanting Him; it’s another thing to need Him. And it’s one of those things that I had to
learn. And it’s one of those lessons
that I could only learn when I came to the end of myself and my ability to
handle everything. I thought I had done
so much growing from PNG till now. I was
a first-born, overachieving adult with kids of my own now. I was strong and confident.
But I had so much more to learn about trusting the Lord,
and I couldn’t learn that in the comfort of the boat. So God called me to step out onto the
water. Actually, it was more like I got
thrown out of the boat, kicking and screaming, as the storm raged around
me. And this was when I would find out
if I would sink or swim. (I’m coming to
that life-altering trial in a bit! But
before I get to my confidence-crushing fall, I want to share the important
lessons that I learned as a parent!
Lessons that are also good for life!)
