The Favorite Child
Today is the last day of the first week of school for my daughter. And while it’s been a successful first week, it’s not been without its challenges. Truthfully it’s been an adjustment for all of us. We’d been homeschooling for the last two years and a lot of our family rhythms were built around that. But with changing family dynamics, new opportunities, and a budding social personality, it was clear that, at least for now, it was time for her to head to second grade in a traditional setting.
...and neither are these.
And suddenly, just like my five-year-old in the absence of an older sister to compete with, I was at peace, calm and content. There was no need to fight, there was no need to agitate, and there was no need to try to get my Father’s attention.
I already had it.
I’m sure that as my son matures and begins to understand our love and God’s love for him, there’ll be less and less rivalry with his sister. In turn, he himself will be able to love her more fully. But until then, I’m just going to enjoy these fleeting years and do my best to make sure that each of my children at least thinks he's the favorite.
Tell Me What You Did
My father is not a violent or angry man; he is excruciatingly patient and self-possessed. Unlike many fathers, he never roared, strutted, or flaunted his authority. He didn’t yell or belittle me. When I failed, he didn’t condemn.In fact, my most uncomfortable childhood memories are of sitting across from him after he had caught me doing something I shouldn’t have. Silent, he would simply look at me. My conscience, on the other hand, would be screaming, Just punish me – get it over with! But I dare not say anything either. One thing I had learned through these encounters was to keep my mouth shut. Talking only got me into trouble.
He would break the silence after several minutes by simply saying “Tell me what you did.”
This was my cue. Predictably I began with “I didn’t do anything.” Then I’d confidently rehearse my version of events and, more often than not, conclude with an out-right lie. He’d listen, sit silently for another few minutes, and then simply repeat “Tell me what you did.”
So for a second time, I’d tell my story, perhaps revise a few facts, and add a detail of truth, hoping to convince him. But he was too smart for that. He’d listen and again merely say, “Tell me what you did.” Usually, by this point I’d begin to get frustrated. Was he deaf? I’d just told him twice what had happened. What more could I say? This was getting us nowhere. But I had no choice, so I’d repeat my hopeless excuse for a third time.
And still all he would say was “Tell me what you did.”
Quickly frustration would turn to anger. How dare he sit there so passively, so silently! If he doesn’t believe me, he should at least say so, get angry, and threaten me. We both know I’m guilty; we both know I deserve to be punished -- why doesn’t he just do something! I don’t remember how long we would sit there, him listening patiently while I talked myself in circles, but I do remember that the truth always cycled its way out of the lie--sometimes purposefully, often not--and eventually my own lips would condemn me.
Then--and only then--would my father speak.
And while he would speak words of correction and discipline, my quiet father mostly spoke of his own past failures and of forgiveness. Of forgiveness that until then I hadn’t even realized I needed. This was the power of my father’s gentle self-possession--his patience forced me to wrestle with my own guilt, and in doing so, prepared me to receive mercy that I couldn't have only moments before.
I can’t help but wonder if it isn’t the same with our heavenly Father.
We often expect Him to deal with our sin immediately—to rant and rave and hurl down condemnation—only to find that He is longsuffering and patient. He calmly waits and uses many different means to allow us to come face to face with our guilt. And once we’ve worked through our reserve of excuses, when they are finally depleted and we finally realize that we need Him, He stands ready to overwhelm us with grace and forgiveness.
Today with my own children, I usually fail to mirror my father’s composure. More often, I become angry and accusing. But even in those times, when I need it most, I remember how both my fathers have treated me, and I simply hear a voice saying “Tell me what you did.”
Fears Within
Of course after several weeks of this, my justifiable fears, kicked in. Had he had a bad experience recently? Was he fearful of someone in particular? Had he been harmed and we didn’t know it? So one day, after yet another battle to enter a crowded room, my husband and I decided to talk with him, our own hearts equally terrified by what he might tell us.
The conversation went something like this:
Why didn’t you want to go into the room, honey?
There might be a bad guy in there.
*sharp fear, remain calm*
Well… what would he look like?
I don’t know. Big.
*more fear, this time accompanied by stomach churning*
Have you ever seen a bad guy in that room before?
No. But he might be there.
*yep, still fear, breathe deeply*
What would this bad guy do if he was there… (*small voice* ) would he hurt you?
No, he would steal the money and run away.
*?!?! what?!!?!*
The money?
Yeah, like on Superman. Are we done? Can I go play the Wii?
So for now, we’re putting away the Batman and the Superman and the video games until his overachieving imagination can distinguish between fantasy and reality.
But all this has only reminded me how powerfully controlling fear is. How it can paralyze us and make even the most everyday occurrences absolutely terrifying. How, in a very real way, we can get sucked into a vortex of emotion and possibility and even begin to fear fear itself. And as if our own minds weren’t predatory enough, how other people can manipulate our fears and use them to intimidate and oppress us.
Each one of us has our own set of “bad guys in the room.” For me, it’s worrying whether my children will grow up well, whether we’ll ever settle down in one place, whether people will like and approve of me. Some days I’m the courageous warrior leading her small army onto victory; other days I just want to hide behind my mother and retreat from the world.
And when I let my fears dictate my choices, I end up doing just that – retreating from situations that are uncomfortable, from people I don’t know, and from opportunities that are uncertain. I end up retreating from life in all its glorious, messy complexity. And in the end, I teach my children to do the same.
But I’m also discovering that there is something tremendously empowering, something unexpectedly emboldening about faith. Because when you believe that there is a God in heaven, there is purpose and meaning to this life, and there is joy in loving other people, suddenly instead of retreating from the world, you can take it on. When you believe that all things work together for good, that He has plans for your future, and that He loves you with an everlasting love, you can risk finding out what that future is.
And when you believe that He is the everlasting, almighty, just judge of the universe, you realize that even if there are bad guys in the room, they won’t be there for long.
Seven
Wasn’t it yesterday that I was bringing her home from the hospital, looking over my shoulder the whole way wondering when the staff would wise up, realize that I didn’t have a clue what I was doing, and try to stop me?
Wasn’t it yesterday that she was sick in the middle of the night with a fever and I held her, simultaneously praying for relief and raging at a world so unfeeling that it would continue to sleep while my baby couldn’t?
Wasn’t it yesterday that she discovered that dirt and water make one of the most glorious combinations known to mankind and that mommy really can’t get everything clean in the magic clothes machine?
Wasn’t it yesterday that “a” suddenly said /æ/ and “b” said /b/ and p-o-t spelled pot and then somehow unbelievably, blissfully, she was reading all day long and late every night and telling me things that I didn’t even know? ("The baobab tree swells up like a balloon because it keeps water in its trunk.")
No, it wasn’t yesterday.
It was yesterday’s yesterday, and each moment takes it further into the past and her one step closer to the future.
And I find some days it is almost impossible to keep from screaming, “NO!!! Stop! Please stop growing up; please just stay little. Don’t you understand – I need you to stay little. I need you to stay little because I need you to need me.”
But on the good days, on the days that I can see past my own insecurities and neediness, on the days when I love her best, I see that God has planned a bright, beautiful future for her and all I can think is how lucky and grateful I am to be part of it.
First Things
I suppose it all began with one conversation too many, then a book with the perfect title, and an article about Weebly. Add to that, one very creative sister-in-law, a supportive husband and –BAM- I’m in over my head starting a blog. Actually for some time I’ve thought about blogging, but always came down on the safe side.“Really,” my practical self would counter my dreaming self, “how egotistical are you to believe that people actually want to read what you write?”*dreaming self hangs head in shame*
“Besides,” p. self continues “we’re talking commitment here, real down-in-the-trenches, day in, day out, when-the-going-gets-tough-the-tough-get-going commitment. Which both of us know we don’t have.”
The turning point came one day when I was trying to get my daughter to complete a project for school. As is often the case, my emotions were in play, and I quickly extrapolated her failure to finish this assignment to a future of shattered dreams, unfulfilled expectations, and wasted talent. Always the dreamer, never the doer.
Truth is, that was probably more how I viewed myself than her.
Take that practical self.
So this blog is an experiment in following a dream to write, modeling commitment for my daughter, and desperately hoping not to fall flat on my face. You’re welcome on the journey and quite frankly it’d be rather lonely without you. I don’t claim to be exceptional or even always interesting - the title is “Sometimes a Light” after all. The best I hope for is that somewhere my passion and your needs will intersect, and when that happens, we’ll both be one step farther along to becoming what God intends us to be.