"Momma said there'll be days like this" didn't quite cover this one. I mean yesterday was a busy day for us - school in the morning and two afternoon appointments in Rockford, followed by some clothes shopping and grocery shopping, and then home to make supper. All of these activities were enhanced by the fact that Mark had worked yet another double shift and wasn't available to help with any of them. When I finally got the kids off to bed last night, I thought I'd be spending the next hopefully low-key day working on school with the kids, doing regular daily duties, and topping it off by going to a long-awaited supper with a friend. I know this might not seem like an exciting day to most people, but I've come to sincerely cherish days with few things on the schedule... especially if that day might happen to end with a supper that someone else cooks and cleans up after... and especially if that supper is with another adult-type conversational person... most especially if that supper does not include sippy cups, cutting someone else's meat, and/or the dog ripping someone's beloved (if not carelessly dangled below the table's edge) cheeseburger from his or her tiny fingers leading to excessive, dramatic wailing.
These dreams of such a day and such a meal were not meant to be. You see, my throat had started to hurt around 6:00 pm. At about 11:00 pm, when I was just about finishing up my mommy alone time, Violet came wandering into the kitchen. She was restless but not feverish, and she said that her throat hurt. She asked me to give her medicine, and after a little bit of Tylenol and some snuggling in her bed, she fell asleep... for about 20 minutes. As I was in bed starting to drift off, she came wandering in asking me to help her - that her throat hurt. Obviously, there was little else I could do for her. So we followed the same routine as before, minus the Tylenol, about half a dozen more times that night until I just had her sleep in bed with me. I use the term "sleep" very loosely, because that's not what actually happened. She was awake nearly the entire rest of the night and up for good by 4:00 am. It's amazing how quickly it seems that a person goes from being accustomed to nightly feedings and waking at all hours to getting to sleep for at least 6 hours in a night. So much worse than being awake was watching her pain and being helpless to do anything about it. She kept asking me to help her, and there was nothing I could do. I called Mark, who was obviously working nights, and he insisted that he would take us both to the prompt care doc when he got home that morning. (He didn't want me to drive on so little sleep.)
When we got up, Violet cried if I had to put her down for any time at all, which, when Levi woke up - his usual, chipper, very early morning rising self - became a necessity. He insisted on trying to get his own cereal. He hopped up on the counter to get a bowl, and, finding all the plastic bowls missing, decided on glass one which he promptly dropped on the tile floor. The bowl and floor met with an ear-shattering crash, and I spent the next 15 minutes trying to find every shard of glass - which had gone far and wide all over the kitchen. Fortunately, Austin came upstairs at just that moment and was able to help with Violet while I cleaned up the mess. Unfortunately, he brought with him the news that Claire's kitten had drowned in the pool. Mark arrived home shortly after and discovered that Levi had thoroughly wet his bed in the night. Austin was telling me that he had finally decided that he wanted to play basketball this season and that his first basketball practice was... when else? Tonight. I texted my mom who was on her way to pick up Levi and Violet (as she often does on Thursdays) to tell her what was happening, and she offered to try to help. I didn't even know where to begin. I knew if Mark was going to take me and Violet to town that he would not be able to wake up when I had to leave for my dream supper at 4:30 pm. I also knew that it would be hard for him to pack up a sick baby to take Austin to basketball practice. As my dreams of a relaxing day and evening faded so crazy quick into the background of all our unexpected hustle and bustle, my emotions were all over the place. They were bouncing from sympathetic, to annoyed, to controling, to helpful, to happy, to sad, to loved, to exhausted and most of all overwhelmed. My day was not really my day at all - which isn't that different from any other day, but I had to try to figure out how to administrate all the chaos that came with this one. As it turns out, I canceled all my evening plans and was better able to work through all the different things that needed to be done for this long day.
I have a book titled, The Miracle in a Mother's Touch. I can't tell you who the author is. I can't tell you what it says. I can't tell you how I came to own it. You see, I don't really care for whole books so much as I like titles and ideas, and my mind starts to wander as I read, and I develop my own ideas about what point of the book must surely be, and then I become lost. I have reading ADD. The title of this book has captivated me from my night stand on several occasions, and I have decided or determined to decide to read it. I have started the first chapter on more than one occasion. I must make a confession. I'm not naturally a cuddler or a hugger. I have to push against my natural desires for personal space and open my arms to those around me - especially my kids. When it seems like it must be automatic and desireable for so many moms, it isn't always that way for me. In fact, I've been that way for as long as I can remember. I come from an affectionate household, and I can remember everyone thinking me strange when, as a child, if I had someone sleep over in my room I would pull out the rollaway bed and sleep on it - giving my guest the bed. I liked my own space... still do.
Today was a sad day for many here in our town. Several years ago, one of my cousins married a lady and had some sweet boys. His wife became ill and passed away. In time he remarried, but, as it turns out, his new wife was not good and kind to his first wife's sons. In fact, she abused and injured one of his sons quite badly. This little boy ended up with severe brain damage, but, after making several improvements, was able to gain some consciousness and be placed back with family members. After much struggle and hope, the boy died - today. The tragedy is indescribable... these boys lost one sweet mother and received the wrath of the next. I can only trust God that He has reunited mother and son in His presence, and that there is no more pain or suffering there. You see, God doesn't just understand a mother's love. He didn't even just invent a mother's love. He is a mother's love.
Luke 13:34b AMP Jesus says, "How often I have desired and yearned to gather your children together [around Me], as a hen [gathers] her young under her wings, but you would not!"
God, as a masculine deity, often gets forgotten as the author of feminity... softness, gentleness, beauty, and the kind of strength that is not coarse or brash but is sure and true and trustworthy - the kind that says, "Lean on me, and I will support you with all I have". (I say this not to negate the obvious masculinity that He is including provider, avenger, protector, leader, and the kind of strength that says, "Count on me, and I will lead you and cover you," but this isn't a tale of two daddies.) In our day and age where every boundary must be pushed and every limit defied, we are often uncomfortable in labeling gender roles. People claim to believe there is no absolute truth defining those roles - or any absolute truth at all, for that matter. I have yet to see anyone actually try to live with the conviction that there is no absolute truth. After all, we wouldn't survive very long if we tried out the theories that the law of gravity may not be an absolute truth. We wouldn't advance in intelligence or technology if we tried out the theory that 2+2 may not actually equal 4 either.
I tend to believe that God created both man and woman for the purpose of displaying a portion of His being... and that those two portions combine to make - in an ideal world (which ours is far from) - an accurate picture of His whole nature.
Back to the miracle in a mother's touch. Maybe the author uses statistical data or anectodal evidence. Me? I have a mother. She used to hold my hand. She used to caress my skin when I was tired. She used to touch my feverish forehead when I was sick. She touched me daily. When I think of my mother's hands, I remember them the way they looked when I was a child. I remember her fingernails, her freckles. I remember how I felt when she used them to nurture me - sometimes even through discipline. A mother's touch is a reflection of a mother's heart. Some mother's are loud and showy with their affection as if to impress. Some are discreet and sincere. Still others have trouble even managing to reach out and touch at all.
This morning, as I sat in the chair with a sick daughter pulled close to one breast and a heartbroken daughter pulled close to the other - trying to decide how the rest of the day was going to be for my family, I recognized that it was more critical to my family at that moment that I decide how I was going to be for my family for the rest of the day. Proverbs 14:1 says, "EVERY WISE woman builds her house, but the foolish one tears it down with her own hands." I may look at an abusive or neglectful mother and get on my "high horse". I can think to myself thoughts that are (by God's grace) true - that I am not in danger of beating, abusing, or neglecting my children and that this makes me a good mom, but there's so much more to the job than meets the eye. I have a choice to make, every moment of every day - whether I will nurture and build my home (the people in my home) or whether I will tear it down with my own hands (words). The difference between a cutting word and an encouraging word - a critical spirit and a nurturing spirit - is often a much more crucial difference than I will ever perceive or can fully appreciate.
Who are the two mommies, you may wonder? I am. I can be controlling, demanding, exasperated, annoyed, frustrated, angry, and put out. Or I can release control to God which enables me to give up my demands, be patient, be kind, be soft and strong. The truths God's placed in nature reveal that it is possible to be soft and still be strong and that it is particularly endearing to do so. Just ask cotton... it makes up my favorite old t-shirt, my daughter's 10 year old "blankie", and the dear, old undies that my husband might still have in the rotation when the toddlers graduate. Ah, me... the glories of being strong enough to fulfill my role and not just fulfill it but to glory in it. I think of that book title whenever I am mopping a feverish brow, bandaging a scraped knee, or pulling a burdened, little heart closer to mine. There is no question for those of us who have watched tales of two mommies unfold... which is the more endearing one.
These dreams of such a day and such a meal were not meant to be. You see, my throat had started to hurt around 6:00 pm. At about 11:00 pm, when I was just about finishing up my mommy alone time, Violet came wandering into the kitchen. She was restless but not feverish, and she said that her throat hurt. She asked me to give her medicine, and after a little bit of Tylenol and some snuggling in her bed, she fell asleep... for about 20 minutes. As I was in bed starting to drift off, she came wandering in asking me to help her - that her throat hurt. Obviously, there was little else I could do for her. So we followed the same routine as before, minus the Tylenol, about half a dozen more times that night until I just had her sleep in bed with me. I use the term "sleep" very loosely, because that's not what actually happened. She was awake nearly the entire rest of the night and up for good by 4:00 am. It's amazing how quickly it seems that a person goes from being accustomed to nightly feedings and waking at all hours to getting to sleep for at least 6 hours in a night. So much worse than being awake was watching her pain and being helpless to do anything about it. She kept asking me to help her, and there was nothing I could do. I called Mark, who was obviously working nights, and he insisted that he would take us both to the prompt care doc when he got home that morning. (He didn't want me to drive on so little sleep.)
When we got up, Violet cried if I had to put her down for any time at all, which, when Levi woke up - his usual, chipper, very early morning rising self - became a necessity. He insisted on trying to get his own cereal. He hopped up on the counter to get a bowl, and, finding all the plastic bowls missing, decided on glass one which he promptly dropped on the tile floor. The bowl and floor met with an ear-shattering crash, and I spent the next 15 minutes trying to find every shard of glass - which had gone far and wide all over the kitchen. Fortunately, Austin came upstairs at just that moment and was able to help with Violet while I cleaned up the mess. Unfortunately, he brought with him the news that Claire's kitten had drowned in the pool. Mark arrived home shortly after and discovered that Levi had thoroughly wet his bed in the night. Austin was telling me that he had finally decided that he wanted to play basketball this season and that his first basketball practice was... when else? Tonight. I texted my mom who was on her way to pick up Levi and Violet (as she often does on Thursdays) to tell her what was happening, and she offered to try to help. I didn't even know where to begin. I knew if Mark was going to take me and Violet to town that he would not be able to wake up when I had to leave for my dream supper at 4:30 pm. I also knew that it would be hard for him to pack up a sick baby to take Austin to basketball practice. As my dreams of a relaxing day and evening faded so crazy quick into the background of all our unexpected hustle and bustle, my emotions were all over the place. They were bouncing from sympathetic, to annoyed, to controling, to helpful, to happy, to sad, to loved, to exhausted and most of all overwhelmed. My day was not really my day at all - which isn't that different from any other day, but I had to try to figure out how to administrate all the chaos that came with this one. As it turns out, I canceled all my evening plans and was better able to work through all the different things that needed to be done for this long day.
I have a book titled, The Miracle in a Mother's Touch. I can't tell you who the author is. I can't tell you what it says. I can't tell you how I came to own it. You see, I don't really care for whole books so much as I like titles and ideas, and my mind starts to wander as I read, and I develop my own ideas about what point of the book must surely be, and then I become lost. I have reading ADD. The title of this book has captivated me from my night stand on several occasions, and I have decided or determined to decide to read it. I have started the first chapter on more than one occasion. I must make a confession. I'm not naturally a cuddler or a hugger. I have to push against my natural desires for personal space and open my arms to those around me - especially my kids. When it seems like it must be automatic and desireable for so many moms, it isn't always that way for me. In fact, I've been that way for as long as I can remember. I come from an affectionate household, and I can remember everyone thinking me strange when, as a child, if I had someone sleep over in my room I would pull out the rollaway bed and sleep on it - giving my guest the bed. I liked my own space... still do.
Today was a sad day for many here in our town. Several years ago, one of my cousins married a lady and had some sweet boys. His wife became ill and passed away. In time he remarried, but, as it turns out, his new wife was not good and kind to his first wife's sons. In fact, she abused and injured one of his sons quite badly. This little boy ended up with severe brain damage, but, after making several improvements, was able to gain some consciousness and be placed back with family members. After much struggle and hope, the boy died - today. The tragedy is indescribable... these boys lost one sweet mother and received the wrath of the next. I can only trust God that He has reunited mother and son in His presence, and that there is no more pain or suffering there. You see, God doesn't just understand a mother's love. He didn't even just invent a mother's love. He is a mother's love.
Luke 13:34b AMP Jesus says, "How often I have desired and yearned to gather your children together [around Me], as a hen [gathers] her young under her wings, but you would not!"
God said through the prophet Isaiah in Isaiah 66:13, “As a mother comforts her son, so will I comfort you.”
God, as a masculine deity, often gets forgotten as the author of feminity... softness, gentleness, beauty, and the kind of strength that is not coarse or brash but is sure and true and trustworthy - the kind that says, "Lean on me, and I will support you with all I have". (I say this not to negate the obvious masculinity that He is including provider, avenger, protector, leader, and the kind of strength that says, "Count on me, and I will lead you and cover you," but this isn't a tale of two daddies.) In our day and age where every boundary must be pushed and every limit defied, we are often uncomfortable in labeling gender roles. People claim to believe there is no absolute truth defining those roles - or any absolute truth at all, for that matter. I have yet to see anyone actually try to live with the conviction that there is no absolute truth. After all, we wouldn't survive very long if we tried out the theories that the law of gravity may not be an absolute truth. We wouldn't advance in intelligence or technology if we tried out the theory that 2+2 may not actually equal 4 either.
I tend to believe that God created both man and woman for the purpose of displaying a portion of His being... and that those two portions combine to make - in an ideal world (which ours is far from) - an accurate picture of His whole nature.
Back to the miracle in a mother's touch. Maybe the author uses statistical data or anectodal evidence. Me? I have a mother. She used to hold my hand. She used to caress my skin when I was tired. She used to touch my feverish forehead when I was sick. She touched me daily. When I think of my mother's hands, I remember them the way they looked when I was a child. I remember her fingernails, her freckles. I remember how I felt when she used them to nurture me - sometimes even through discipline. A mother's touch is a reflection of a mother's heart. Some mother's are loud and showy with their affection as if to impress. Some are discreet and sincere. Still others have trouble even managing to reach out and touch at all.
This morning, as I sat in the chair with a sick daughter pulled close to one breast and a heartbroken daughter pulled close to the other - trying to decide how the rest of the day was going to be for my family, I recognized that it was more critical to my family at that moment that I decide how I was going to be for my family for the rest of the day. Proverbs 14:1 says, "EVERY WISE woman builds her house, but the foolish one tears it down with her own hands." I may look at an abusive or neglectful mother and get on my "high horse". I can think to myself thoughts that are (by God's grace) true - that I am not in danger of beating, abusing, or neglecting my children and that this makes me a good mom, but there's so much more to the job than meets the eye. I have a choice to make, every moment of every day - whether I will nurture and build my home (the people in my home) or whether I will tear it down with my own hands (words). The difference between a cutting word and an encouraging word - a critical spirit and a nurturing spirit - is often a much more crucial difference than I will ever perceive or can fully appreciate.
Who are the two mommies, you may wonder? I am. I can be controlling, demanding, exasperated, annoyed, frustrated, angry, and put out. Or I can release control to God which enables me to give up my demands, be patient, be kind, be soft and strong. The truths God's placed in nature reveal that it is possible to be soft and still be strong and that it is particularly endearing to do so. Just ask cotton... it makes up my favorite old t-shirt, my daughter's 10 year old "blankie", and the dear, old undies that my husband might still have in the rotation when the toddlers graduate. Ah, me... the glories of being strong enough to fulfill my role and not just fulfill it but to glory in it. I think of that book title whenever I am mopping a feverish brow, bandaging a scraped knee, or pulling a burdened, little heart closer to mine. There is no question for those of us who have watched tales of two mommies unfold... which is the more endearing one.
