His stretching four-year-old frame climbs into his seat. Damp hands reach out to find mine. Shock sweeps passed as I realize I didn’t have to remind him today.
I don’t recall holding hands at the dinner table growing up. We prayed, but I don’t remember the hand holding. Not sure how we instigated it here, but I like it. The symbolism of joining together, praying in agreement. The removal of temptation to grab food before we’re done. Yes, I enjoy this moment each day.
Normally, my husband will pray first followed by my son if he feels so inclined. Not today.
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I have a confession to make. I would like to be perfect before God uses me for anything. That way, He’s not embarrassed. I’m not embarrassed. Of course, then He would never be able to use me this side of heaven. I am not and will not be perfect. And yet, the desire to be is so often still there.
Teary-eyed and heavy-hearted, I tried to convince the Lord one morning He really should call it quits on me. “Listen. I am such a mess. Such. A. Mess. Maybe You just shouldn’t use me anymore, okay? Maybe You should find someone who has it more together or wait until I have it more together.
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I pulled up to the stop sign not far from my neighborhood. Music floated through the car like fog – not loud enough to be truly heard, but not quite soft enough to equate silence. The sun was shining. I turned right at the stop to meet a friend for walking at the mall in what turned out to be a Friday ritual. In the back seat was my new baby, my first-born son. No other children yet to grace the spots behind me. One year earlier, I was standing at a white board teaching phonics and double-digit subtraction with twenty-four sets of eyes on my every move.
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My daughter does not like to clean her room. She never has. In fact, unlike me, she seems to like clothes on the floor and stuff everywhere.
Years ago when she was younger, I once again brought up the fact that her room was out of hand, and she needed to spend time cleaning it up. She wasn’t happy. The more we talked (I explained, she debated) the more upset she got, until finally she burst into tears, and cried, “God made me this way, and you should love me messy!”
I assured her of how much I loved her, messy or not…but her room still needed work.
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I remember wanting to be a beauty queen during my preteen years. I am not sure what pulled me in the most – the gorgeous gowns or the desire to be officially labeled beautiful. Bless my awkward pre-teen heart…it was for the best my family could not afford for me to participate in beauty pageants. Pimples, braces, and a lack of anything curvaceous would have kept my head quite tiara-free.
Thankfully, as I have grown older, my desire to be found beautiful has shifted from wanting to look fantastic in a swimsuit competition to longing to see and share the beauty the Lord has placed inside of me.
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Tap. Tap. Tap.
All eyes are on the conductor. His hand goes up, the instruments are lifted into place, and on the down beat the music begins.
I want to be the conductor!
I want to lead, to turn around at the end of the performance and take my bow.
I want to hear the applause for a job well done.
Why won’t my family cooperate?
Families are works in progress. They are more like the fourth grade band than the Royal Philharmonic. Families are learning. Some days everything harmonizes perfectly and others . . . not so much. I can get so frustrated on those days when my family plays the wrong notes.
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There’s no containing him. He squeals in delight as he gallops through the wet, sloppy grass. The curvy red slide calls to him like my reading chair calls to me. His hands wave with reckless abandon as if the movement will help him move faster towards his goal.
And I take that deep breath. The one where I remind myself control does not need to be mine. I can enjoy what comes my way. For there is joy to be found amidst the tall scaffolds of playground equipment.
You see, I wear worry like a fashion statement. Pain is something I try to avoid at all cost, especially when it can be inflicted on those I love.
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He’s in a competitive phase lately — my son. Everything is “faster” and “stronger” and “better”.
And he’s the fastest and the best.
We remind him to be humble.
But the other day, during one of his “I’m faster than so-and-so monologues” he said thoughtfully, “mommy, no one is faster than God”.
Oh son. How right you are.
God can always catch up to us, no matter how far away we run. When we’re searching for Him, He’s there like a finger-snap. When we run down the beach toward him, He meets us way before we get halfway.
God is the fastest.
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