Posted on July 5, 2019
I do not exist.
At least, that’s how I feel most days.
My older kids have entered this fun, new stage where their ears have become deaf to the sound of my voice. It’s as though my words are nothing but the wind. I could scream that the house was on fire and they’d still sit there, unflinching at the kitchen table, trying to decide if they should use ‘hot magenta’ or ‘primrose’ for the queen bunny’s scepter in their coloring book.
It’s only when they disagree, the argument coming to punches and tears, before they come running to me, fingers pointing at the other in accusation, expecting me to condemn and punish the one who’s in the wrong.
Then there’s my youngest who’s nearing his second birthday, and has firmly decided to remind me of the dangerous combination of having too many emotions and too few words.
In the course of a single day, it’s not uncommon for someone to run away from me and someone else to angrily chase me down.
I’ve been both shouted at and given the silent treatment.
I’ve been hit, slapped in the face, and bitten.
Because to my children, I’m merely whatever they want me to be. A judge. An executioner. A security blanket. A punching bag. A genie who will make whatever they want materialize in front of them.
But rarely, if ever, am I treated like the full person that I am. A person with hopes and a heart for them. A person who wants the best for them. A person who dreams the lofty dream for her children to become saints.
And so they lose sight of the biggest part of my identity. They lose me.
“You know why you treat me like this?” I asked them on a particularly tough day. “Because I’m ALWAYS HERE.”
It was an inappropriate release of anger, really. An expression of my feeling trapped, confined to the chaos, even on the days when all I want to do is run away or sit alone crying in the closet.
But it’s true.
I’m always there, elbow-deep in the foulness, even when I can’t stand the stench.
I’m always here.
To me, those words can be suffocating. A lifelong prison sentence. An unbearable, impossible task.
But in the same moment I shouted those words at my children, God whispered them to me.
You see, I’ve been in this stage lately where I haven’t heard from my Father very much. It’s not for His lack of trying, I’m sure. My ears have simply been deaf to His voice, as though His words were nothing but the wind. He could scream that my life was inflamed with sin, and I’d sit there, unflinching in my living room, trying to decide if I should watch Captain Marvel or Captain America after the kids are in bed.
It’s only when I’m angry or hurt, my arguments usually ending in tears, before I come sprinting to Him.
And during this pregnancy, I’ve taken it upon myself to remind Him of the extremely dangerous combination of having too many emotions and too few words in prayer.
In the course of a single day, it’s not uncommon for me to run away from Him and also angrily chase Him down.
He’s been both shouted at and given the silent treatment.
Because to me, He becomes whatever I want Him to be. A judge. An executioner. A security blanket. A punching bag. A genie who can make whatever I want materialize in front of me.
But rarely is He treated like the full Person that He is. A Person with hopes and a heart for me. A Person who wants the best for me. A Person who dreams the lofty dream for His child to become a saint.
And so I lose sight of the biggest part of His identity. I lose Him.
“You know why you treat Me like this?” He asks me again on that particularly tough day. “Because I’m always here.”
And it’s true.
He’s always there, elbow-deep in my foulness, even when I’m sure He can’t stand the stench.
I’m always here.
But to God, those words are a promise. An eternal covenant. A profession of real, unconditional, unbreakable love.
My son has a severe case of separation anxiety.
As he grows, the issue seems to intensify, despite the fact that I drop him off at his grandparents’ house one day each week so I can have a few hours of uninterrupted writing time (praise God for grandparents!)
To him, it doesn’t matter that his grandparents are modern-day saints who immerse him in love and his favorite books, toys, and tv shows. It doesn’t matter that we’ve done this song and dance every week for over a year. It doesn’t even matter that I always return, full of hugs and kisses, ready to scoop him up in my arms and keep him there as long as he pleases.
The moment we separate, he freaks out.
You’d think he would have grown out of this by now.
But he hasn’t.
To him, separation from me actually hurts. And there’s nothing else in the world that can fill the void of my absence, nothing that can quench the immense longing he has for me.
If he knew me—I mean, really knew me—he’d understand that I am incredibly flawed and thus, by nature, unable to fulfill him. In this regard, it seems silly and unreasonable that he would distress so much over me.
But babies are silly and unreasonable.
So he cries, throwing his tiny, helpless hands out to me, desperately pleading for me to stay.
There’s inconsolable tears. Red, hot cheeks. Difficulty breathing. A desperate chase. And then a painful, constant, unfulfilled longing after I’m gone.
And maybe he’s onto something.
Shouldn’t that be our reaction at the separation we have from our Father?
If we knew Him—I mean, really knew Him—it would validate having intense separation anxiety. After all, God is perfect love, and thus by nature, the only thing that can fulfill us. In this regard, it seems silly and unreasonable that we wouldn’t distress over losing Him.
It shouldn’t matter to us if we are surrounded by modern-day saints or our favorite books, toys, or tv shows. It shouldn’t matter that we’ve done this song and dance since the Fall, when Adam and Eve brought this separation upon us. It shouldn’t even matter that God always returns, ready to scoop us up in His arms and keep us there as long as we please.
The moment we’re separated from God, we should freak out. To us, separation from Him should actually hurt. And nothing else in the world should be able to fill the void of His absence. Nothing else should be able to quench the immense longing we have for Him.
So I’ll cry, throwing my tiny, helpless hands out to Him, desperately pleading for Him to stay.
Inconsolable tears? A desperate chase? A painful, constant, unfulfilled longing? I’ll cling to those.
Because as I’ve grown to know God better, my separation anxiety has intensified.
And that is something I never want to grow out of.
My family has a Christmas tradition that makes most people’s heads explode.
We don’t do Santa.
(I can hear the gasps from here.)
Don’t get me wrong, we still talk about Santa, watch movies and read books about Santa. Heck, we even go visit him. But my husband and I explain to our kids that Santa is a fun game people play at Christmas to show generosity and kindness.
There are lots of reasons we chose to do this (reasons I won’t go into on this post, but if anyone has questions, feel free to contact me at my link above.) But the truth is, my husband and I spent lots of long nights deliberating over this decision.
You’d be surprised how pressure-filled and difficult it was for us to grind our way down this path. We questioned ourselves. We wondered how our kids would respond. But in the end, it seemed to be working out really well.
Until something strange happened.
This year, my three-year-old thinks Santa is real. Even though we have told her the opposite, point-blank.
She knows that Santa is a game people play. She knows the guys in Santa suits are just men playing dress up. And she knows that Santa is a representation of a real man named St. Nicholas of Myra (because she picks a book about St. Nicholas every night at bedtime.)
So, it isn’t any wonder I got whiplash the first time she spotted “the real Santa” (ahem, a gentlemen with a white beard and rotund tummy who was not dressed up as Santa.)
Over and over now, she gawks at Santa-like men until they notice her and wish her a Merry Christmas. Then she flees to me, squealing with delight and clinging to my leg for dear life. Once the men pass by, she looks up at me, doe-eyed, and points a finger in his direction.
“It was him!” she whispers.
At least once a day, she talks about Santa. She loves the guy. And she really believes he will bring her the jet packs she asked for for Christmas. (According to her, they have size 3T at Target.)
This drastic turnaround of hers got me wondering: How can people believe something when they’ve been flat-out told that its opposite is true?
It’s like we’re hardwired to hope and believe.
Even as adults, we have a natural programming to believe. All of us, to some degree, believe in something. Be it a science-explains-all approach or aliens or Jesus Christ or the idea that humans are absolutely alone in the universe.
Whatever the case, the answer is we don’t have the answers, so we believe in something to fill in the blanks.
Personally, I choose to believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God, who took on flesh, became man, and died at the hands of men for the salvation of humanity.
Sounds a little fantastical, no?
So what’s to say that my belief in Jesus is not some antiquated legend or holiday farce?
How do I know I’m not just a grown-up version of my naive daughter?
I mean, here I am staking my life on God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit. How do I know that this is not all in my head? How do I know that any of it is actually true?
Because ultimately we, as Christians, have a faith that is based on reason.
Will my daughter be able to prove that Santa sneaked into our house and left gifts under the tree? No.
Will I be able to prove that Jesus was the Son of God who was crucified, died, and was buried? And that on the third day he rose from the dead and is seated at the right hand of the Father? No.
But proof and evidence are two different things, and what I can do is evaluate Christian claims in other ways.
For one, I can look at historical documents that provide evidence of Jesus’s life and death. From there I can examine any evidence that He performed miracles or rose from the dead. If those stack up, I can start to scrutinize scripture to see if/how it fits with the other evidence. I can also take into account the tradition of my belief system spanning thousands of years and the writings of those who have already asked tough questions about Christianity. And, because they’re available, I can look at the writings of the earliest Church fathers who knew people who actually hung out with this historical Jesus guy.
At that point, you start to get a pretty thick stack of reasons that back up your beliefs.
And that’s totally different than saying, “I believe in Santa because I want jet packs.”
One involves reason, thorough examination, and evidence-based conclusions. The other is based on feelsy goodsies.
So don’t be afraid to ask tough questions. Don’t be afraid to investigate. Don’t be afraid to examine and scrutinize the Christian faith.
And definitely don’t be afraid to believe.
It was a mad dash to the minivan.
We had snacks, we had water cups—though they may or may not have been filled with water—and all three kids were stampeding toward their car seats at the same time. It was even rumored that all the kids had shoes on their feet.
From the looks of things, it would be a successful roundup. (Over the years, my husband and I have somehow figured out how to do this without the use of a lasso or child hypnosis. I know, I’m a little surprised myself.)
I slipped the diaper bag onto my shoulders, shoved my feet into high heels and fastened my watch as I shuffled toward the van (because, as usual, we were late.)
At the push of a button, the van door slid open slowly and I tossed the diaper bag inside. The Elder Child was already fastened in her seat in the far back, her nose pressed to the pages of a book. The Baby was perfectly imprisoned in his pumpkin seat.
From the other side of the van, my husband’s hands furiously worked the buckle on the Middle’s safety belt. He glanced up at me with wide eyes. I’d seen that look many times before. Heck, I was comfortable with it plastered on my face. It was the look of having forgotten something.
“What is it?” I asked. Baby’s milk? Baby’s paci? Shoes? Did the kids not have shoes after all??
“Will you go get the checkbook?” my husband asked.
The checkbook? The request slapped me senseless for a moment. What in the world would he need a checkbook for in this age of digital spending? There was nothing we even needed to buy, for heaven’s sake.
But, there he was, wide-eyed, his hands still fidgeting with Middle’s five-point harness. I took off at a sprint—well, as close to a sprint as one can get in heels—click-clacking through our kitchen to the place where we keep the dusty, nearly forgotten checkbook. For a moment, I stared at the antiquated pieces of paper.
Did he want just one check? Or the whole book?
The whole book would be even more unusual than just one…but hadn’t he asked me to get the checkbook?
I shook it off. The moments I stood gawking at blank checks were moments wasted.
Get the checkbook.
I grabbed the short stack and clomped back through the house to the van.
“Did you get it?” my husband asked, strapping himself into the driver’s seat.
I nodded, somehow out of breath.
“Thanks so much.”
I handed him the blank checks. “Why did you need these?”
“Today’s the last day to get raffle tickets for the Fall Festival and it’s the church’s biggest fundraiser. I wanted to help.”
I nodded again, and finally it all made sense. His request. My response. Everything.
My husband’s request was rooted in love and service, and my response stemmed from absolute trust in him.
Because I know him so well, I trusted him, even when he asked me to do something that made zero sense. And, because I know my husband so well, I sprinted in heels—without knowing why—to do what he asked, trusting that whatever I was doing was good and important.
And it was.
I sat shotgun as we zoomed toward church. What if God asked me to go get the checkbook? Do I know him well enough—trust Him enough—to sprint off in the direction He asks me to go? Especially when it’s cloudy and vague and makes no sense?
I frowned in the front seat, knowing the answer.
When it comes to God, I usually want specific details and a fully laid out plan.
Yet, so often when it comes to God, His requests are the kind that slap us senseless for a moment.
But they are always, always rooted in love.
All I have to do is trust. And then take off sprinting.
My girls have had a tough time making good choices lately, especially when it comes to sleep. They refuse to nap, choosing to giggle beneath the blankets with each other in the top bunk instead. Then they wake up in the middle of the night to do the same thing. For hours.
As the days progress, I see their ability to function dwindling exponentially. First goes the patience. Then the kindness. Then the respectfulness. The obedience. The focus and ability to understand things. The ability to think of others instead of themselves. Everything. Everything goes out the window with each decision not to sleep.
And that’s not even counting the physical effects of sleep deprivation.
Recently, during a particularly unfortunate “nap” session, their racquet woke their baby brother, who also needed to rest.
I propped him on my hip and wiped his tiny, runny nose. “Sad choices have sad consequences,” I reminded the girls. “You’ve chosen to hurt your own bodies by not resting, and now that sad choice has also hurt your brother.”
“Sorry, Mommy,” they said in unison.
“The only way we can go to gymnastics tonight is if you rest and give your body energy. I’ll give you one more chance to make a wise choice. ”
“Okay!” They scurried to their beds and squeezed their eyes shut tight.
Gymnastics, to my girls, is the pinnacle of the week. When that day comes along, they wake up and announce to the house, “TODAY IS GYMNASTICS DAY!” Joy pours out of them in such great quantities, they have to bounce and run so they don’t explode with the emotion. And, when it’s time to go, they actually listen when I tell them to get in the van. That’s the real indicator of their love for the activity.
And I, as their mom, want to give them things they love. I want to take care of them—of their bodies, and of their wants and needs.
But the moment I closed the door behind me, little footsteps stomped up the steps to the top bunk. Then came the giggling.
My heart sank with devastation. I wanted to give them gymnastics. All they had to do was choose it.
But they didn’t.
As I opened their bedroom door, I knew what I had to do. “Girls, we can’t go to gymnastics today.”
Without a word, they rolled out of the bed and started walking out of the room. No emotion. No reaction. Nothing.
I squinted in confusion as they filed past me. “Are you not really, really sad right now?”
They both shrugged. “No.”
My boggled mind tried to make sense of this. “You mean none of this makes you sad? Hurting your brother by not letting him rest? Losing gymnastics?”
Their little shoulders shrugged again. They weren’t being difficult, they were simply being honest.
The consequences to their sad choices were somehow not making them sad. No wonder they keep making those choices over and over again.
I know my sin is a sad choice. That it separates me from God and hurts the body of Christ.
But do I really let that sink in?
What if every time I sinned, I felt the sharp, searing pain of a nail grinding through my wrist? Or heard the agonized cry of the One who took those blows for me? Or understood the gravity of being separated from the only One who makes me feel whole?
Then, maybe, I’d have a better understanding of the devastation that comes from my sad choices.
But instead, I often sin and then keep moving on with life—without emotion or reaction—ready to go do whatever’s next.
As the sins progress, it can be difficult for me to see myself becoming less like Christ. But it’s there. First goes the patience. Then the kindness. Then the respectfulness. The obedience. The focus and ability to understand things. The ability to think of others instead of myself. Everything. Everything goes out the window with each sin.
Then I forge a way past my Father as I go, leaving Him behind me to feel the weight of the devastation.
“Are you not really, really sad right now?” He asks.
I shrug in apathy. “No.”
“None of this makes you sad? The nails in my wrist? The wound in my side? Hurting your brothers and sisters because of your sad choices?”
I shrug my shoulders again. I’m not being difficult, I’m simply being honest.
The consequences to my sad choices somehow don’t make me as sad as they should. It’s no wonder I keep making those choices over and over again.
God, as our Father, wants to give us things we love. He wants to take care of us—of our bodies, and of our greatest desires and needs. He wants to give us Himself.
All we have to do is choose it.
Not long ago, we went to a birthday party at Cici’s Pizza.
Immediately, the flashing arcade lights beckoned all the children, and off they all ran together, carrying baggies of coins and little prizes.
“Do you have any money, Mommy?” my daughters asked, almost in unison.
I cringed at the hope in their voice.
“I don’t know…” I stammered. “Let me check.”
The girls danced in front of me, clapping with joy. The pressure was officially on.
I unzipped my bag, said a quick prayer and eventually scrounged up a little change for them both.
With smiles and thanks, they dashed off to join their cousins and friends. Moments later, they returned, their smiles somehow even bigger than before.
“Mom! Guess what we got!” they said, the big surprise concealed in their tiny, closed fists. The rest of their coins were gone. They’d spent everything on whatever was hiding in their hands.
“Diamonds!” They opened their hands, displaying their shiny, new gems, enclosed safely in a plastic container.
I feigned a gasp. “Wow! How beautiful!”
“Can I take mine out and hold it?” my youngest asked.
“Of course, but be careful. We don’t want to lose it.”
My three-year-old nodded solemnly, sealing her oath with a death grip on her finest jewel.
For days, the kids went everywhere—and I mean everywhere—with those cherished diamonds tucked tightly into the crevices of their palms.
It got me thinking about us—about you and me and all of humanity.
About how when God made people, He put a small piece of Himself inside every single one of us. This immortal sliver of divinity—our soul—glitters and shines from within us, like an invaluable jewel.
And yet, how often do we fixate more on our bodies—our plastic containers—than the immaculate gems inside? More often than not, it seems. We all tend to focus on and obsess about the shape and color of our casings. We point out differences. We compare and contrast. We make up lies about whose is best.
With those thoughts in mind, I turned to my five-year-old, whose immortal glittering diamond is older than most.
“What do you like about your diamond?” I asked.
“It’s just so beautiful,” she said. “I love it.”
“Would it matter to you what the case looked like?”
“Would it matter if the case was a different shape?”
“Would it matter if it was a different color?”
“Of course not, Mom,” she said, clearly resisting the urge to put her face in her palm.
“So why do you like the case? What makes it important?”
She lifted her prized possession and peered at the glorious jewel with awe. “I like it because it keeps my diamond safe.”
A smile spread onto my face as I nodded in agreement. “I couldn’t have said it better myself, kiddo.”
She’s right, after all. Our diamonds need protecting. There’s an enemy working hard to distract us from that part of ourselves, to convince us to defile it, or to flat out rob it from us.
But God knows how precious we are, and He wants us more than anything else.
So, our Father gave His Son everything He needed to win the prize of our souls. And because of Jesus’s incredible love for us, He took what He was given, and He spent it all. Every breath, every droplet of blood. He spent it. For you. For me. For every single one of us.
And, after giving up everything He had, he returned to the Father with a smile somehow bigger than ever before.
I can just imagine their exchange.
“Dad! Guess what I got!” Jesus would say, the big surprise concealed within the wounds on his wrists.
“All the diamonds.”
“Wow!” the Father would exclaim with genuine admiration. “How beautiful!”
“Can I hold them?”
“Of course, Son, but be careful. We don’t want to lose any of them.”
And then Jesus would nod, sealing His oath with a firm grip on His finest jewels, so He could go everywhere—and I mean everywhere—with those cherished diamonds tucked tightly into the crevices of His palms.
I don’t know about you, but I can’t get enough of the World Cup.
I’m not just talking about the soccer (although that’s fun, too) but it’s the non-athletic activity that keeps making the headlines. From man-made “seismic activity” in Mexico and Chile, to a Croatian striker getting sent home after refusing to play, to the performance (or underperformance) of the Saudi Arabia soccer team.
That last one really gets me.
After losing to Russia in a 5-0 shutout, Saudi Arabia’s performance was quickly labeled as one of the worst in the history of the World Cup. Apparently, it was so abysmal, Turki bin Abdulmohsen Al-Sheikh, the chairman of the General Sport Authority, cited the game as a ‘total fiasco’—one which made his face “go black with embarrassment and fury.”
Adel Ezzat, the Saudi Arabian Football Federation chief, immediately jumped on the bandwagon, stating:
“We are very disappointed by the defeat. This result is totally unsatisfactory because it does not reflect the true level of our preparedness. Several players will face a penalty.”
The severity of their penalty remains unclear. Perhaps a fine. Perhaps removal from the national team. Perhaps, in a country that enforces capital punishment, that could be the penalty.
I don’t know.
Whatever the case (and let’s pray to God it’s not the last one), any outsider can most likely agree that penalties such as these are unfit, unjust, and overall downright ridiculous to place on someone’s performance in a soccer game.
Am I right?
And yet, how many times do we do this to ourselves? How many times do we place unfit, unjust, and overall ridiculous penalties on our own performances? How many times have we been Adel Ezzat?
I know I, for one, have been guilty of this. I’m very familiar with the crushing ache of humility that comes from slipping up and underperforming. I know exactly how it feels to do something so poorly, my face goes black with embarrassment and fury. And I know the self-inflicting penalties I imagine will come later.
It usually sounds something like this:
“If I don’t [insert goal/ideal performance here] then [insert severe penalty here].”
If I don’t write the perfect book and find an agent to represent me, I’ll never get published and my writing will clearly be terrible and no one will ever want to read it. All my hard work, my time—everything—will all be worthless.
If I’m not the perfect mom, what will happen to my kids?? (I’ll spare you the comprehensive list of things I fear will happen to my kids.)
If I don’t make the best times while training for CG Games, then I’ll fail the competition and be a total disgrace. How would my loved ones even be able to look at me then?
How ridiculous do those things sound? I’ll answer that for you. They sound ridiculously ridiculous. And yet, those thoughts float through my mind with ease. For a moment (sometimes more) I may even believe them.
But threats of unreasonable penalties will not make anyone perform better. It will simply make us afraid to play the game.
Because here’s the truth: You are not perfect. You never will be. You’ll mess up over and over and over again because you’re human.
And, for that same exact reason, you are also deeply loved.
No performance—great or poor—will ever change that.
So in those moments when severe penalties seem like a reality, take a step back. Laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. Give yourself grace.
And then keep playing the game as best you can.
What more can you ask of yourself?
“I have water on my finger,” my three-year-old says from the backseat.
I cock a brow and glance in the rearview mirror.
“How do you have water on your finger?” I ask.
“From my water cup,” she answers, like it’s obvious.
But before we got in the van, I stuffed the water cups into the diaper bag and shoved all of it on the floor. Out of reach.
“You don’t have your water cup,” I say. “Are you telling me the truth?”
“Elizabeth, tell me the truth.”
“I am telling the truth…” her voice gets quieter, barely audible over the radio. “…that I put my fingers in my mouth.”
I shake my head in the driver’s seat. We’ve gone over this a billion times, but for some reason she can’t help herself. The kid sticks her hand in there so often, her fingertips are as much of a permanent mouth fixture as her teeth. When she first started doing it, I grimaced at the grossness. Then I tried shouting. Now, I simply remove her fingers, clean them, and direct her to use them for something else. Something she loves. Something that gives her joy instead of germs.
“Baby, that’s not water in your mouth, remember? That’s spit. They’re different.”
“It’s not water,” she echoes, “but it is soft.”
If I had looked up, I may have seen a lightbulb flicker on above me.
Finally—after almost an entire year of cringing and shrieking, “TAKE YOUR HANDS OUT OF YOUR MOUTH!“—finally I know why she caresses her tongue.
She likes the feel of her own spit.
To her, it doesn’t matter if her hands are covered in filth from a morning at the playground or the floor of a doctor’s office. She has no concept of the ensuing repercussions. She doesn’t understand how ill it could make her or the fact that—in extreme cases—if she puts the wrong stuff in her mouth, it could be a death sentence. She only cares about one thing.
The spit in her mouth is soft. And she wants to touch it.
And don’t we all?
Every single one of us has our own spit that we like to touch. It’s called sin. And sometimes we can’t help ourselves from touching it over and over and over. (If you don’t believe me, come to confession and watch me repent again for the same things I screwed up last time.)
Because here’s the truth: Sin doesn’t come with bright, flashing warning signs and a picture of a skull with crossbones.
Sin feels soft. And we want to touch it.
I reach for it, even when my Father cringes and tells me to keep my fingers out of my mouth. I can’t possibly understand the real repercussions of a sin-stained soul. I don’t know how ill it could make me or the fact that it could be my own death sentence.
But God knows. And, out of love, He has fought to keep me clean. He removes my fingers, cleans me, and directs me to use them for something else. Something that gives me joy instead of death. Something more like Him.
And that’s way better than anything else I could reach for.
One of my greatest joys is cheering for my kids when they do something amazing.
Amazing being a relative word, of course.
It could be writing a lower case ‘g’ in the lines properly. Or swinging from the monkey bars. Or hopping around the room on one leg.
Amazing can quite literally mean anything.
Just last week, my almost-five-year-old daughter was in gymnastics class, and for some reason, they started juggling scarves. After a series of “tricks,” the coach asked them to toss a scarf into the air and try to catch it with their foot.
Well, let me tell you, my daughter is determined to a fault. Even with something as arbitrary and trivial as catching scarves on her feet. (She gets it from her momma.)
So for a moment, she stood there, her brow furrowed in complete concentration as brightly-colored patches of fabric floated around her through the air.
Finally, she tossed hers up and stuck out her foot. The scarf floated lazily back down.
She tossed it again. Another miss.
Toss, toss. Miss. Miss.
Until finally, the sheer square landed directly on the bridge of her tiny foot.
The smile that exploded across her face could have lit the entire gym. With twinkling, blue eyes alive with accomplishment, she turned toward the coach.
But the coach wasn’t looking.
And all her gymnast buddies were too focused to notice anything other than their own scarves.
I see you, sweet girl.
I raised my hands above my head victoriously in the viewing area, and my lips stretched into a wide smile as I tried to will her eyes to meet mine.
I see you.
But she never looked my way.
And a little kid can only balance on one leg for so long. Soon, she tipped over and the scarf sailed to the floor as though the trick never happened.
Everything about her—who she is, what she did—went seemingly unnoticed. Unappreciated.
Mommas, I don’t know about you, but I feel like that all too often.
There are days—heck, even weeks and months—when it feels like I’m sprinting to take care of the physical, emotional, and spiritual needs of my family. Trying to clean the house, fold the laundry, do the dishes. Trying to write this book. Trying to get this post-baby body ready for CG Games.
Trying. Trying. Trying.
I’m constantly tossing scarves into the air and trying to catch them on my foot.
And lots of times I miss.
But sometimes—sometimes—I do something amazing.
Amazing being a relative word, of course.
It could be folding the laundry and miraculously getting the all clothes in the appropriate drawers. Or cooking three meals a day that everyone in my family actually eats. Or writing a chapter—or simply one sentence—that I’m proud of. Or giving 120% of myself at a Camp Gladiator workout. Or, most amazing of all, playing with my kids instead of worrying about what task I need to take care of next.
With twinkling, brown eyes alive with accomplishment, I turn toward my husband, my kids, my peers. Editors, literary agents, publishers. My CG trainer.
But sometimes they’re not looking. Sometimes they’re too focused on their own scarves to notice the one dangling from my foot.
And that’s okay. It’s not their job to keep their eyes on me.
But I can only balance my life for so long. Soon, I tip over and my scarf sails to the floor as though the amazing thing I did never happened.
Everything about me—who I am, what I did—feels unnoticed. Unappreciated.
Until I remember the viewing area. The one far outside my periphery.
Finally, I turn toward my attention that direction. There my Father stands, His hands raised above His head victoriously. Turns out He’s been there the whole time, watching, trying to will my eyes to meet His. His lips stretch into a wide smile as he says the words I’ve so longed to hear.
I see you, sweet girl. I see you.
My kids always seem to know what they want.
Milk. Snacks. A blanket. Socks. More snacks.
And that’s just at bedtime.
They’re pros at wanting stuff.
It’s like they’re hard-wired to desire what they think will make them happy.
Take it from my son. He’s only eight-months-old and can’t even speak yet, but he has the gift of knowing what he wants and communicating it clearly. (If you don’t believe me, watch what happens when Mom walks out of the room.)
He has also recently entered the get-into-everything phase. He army crawls like professional militia and can turn on the turbo jets when he’s hunting something down.
The other day, for instance, I was unloading the dishwasher. For the past eight months, this has been a relatively easy task. But with Sergeant Baby on the scene, it has gotten a bit trickier. He crawls into the dishwasher (literally, into the dishwasher, y’all) and one time I even had to wrestle a butter knife out of his tiny, dimple-knuckled hand. It was like a horror scene from Chuckie.
Finally, I managed to wrangle the weapon from my infant and he went on his merry, little way—directly into the open cabinet filled with tupperware. (I had tossed a few plastic bowls in there and darted away when I saw my son wielding a knife.)
He reached for the biggest, glassiest baking dish, but I pulled him away and closed the cabinet door.
And he did not like that.
The kid doesn’t know what a baking dish is—heck, he doesn’t even know what glass is—but by golly, he knew he wanted it. He had no idea what danger and destruction could have come from playing with butter knives or glass bakeware.
All he knew was that he wanted them.
Yet, as his Mom, I closed those doors for him out of love.
Aren’t we adults exactly the same way?
We’re pros at wanting stuff.
And we always seem to think we know exactly what we want.
A spouse. A new car. A promotion. A bigger house.
I, for one, dream of finding someone to represent and publish my dystopian novels and children’s books.
But, so far, God has closed those doors.
At first, I whined and shouted.
But what if God did open those doors? What if He decided to give me everything I wanted?
How would the reality of being a published author affect my life? My marriage? My kids? And my ability to tend to all of those things? How would it affect my heart? My spirit? My faith?
The answer: I have no idea.
I have no clue what it’s like to be under the demands of a publisher. I have no idea if it is good for me right now or if it will shatter my already-chaotic life into a thousand pieces of sharp glass.
It’s like I’m hard-wired to desire what I think will make me happy.
I’m programmed to pursue sharp knives and fragile Pyrex. And I truly have no foresight of what will happen when I get what I want.
But the only thing that will bring true joy to my life—and to all of our lives—is not our will, but God’s.
So I’ve learned to stop asking for things—or at least, I’ve stopped trying to pummel through closed doors on my own strength. After all, when God closes a door, He does it out of love. So now, I’ll simply back away, grateful for the blocked road with a new prayer pouring from my heart.
God, keep closing all the doors I’m not supposed to walk through.