DAYS OF MUD

Most days I feel completely unequipped to be a parent. The nurses in the hospital told me, Don’t worry, you’ll know what to do. It’s instinct. And for a while they were right – but now, most days, I am way over my head. Instinct has been tackled by impulse. I can’t get in front of the ball. And time is running out – these days of mud, when I have lives in my hands to shape and to mould, are drying out and sliding through glass.

I have a daughter who watches me – observes, takes it in, notices everything. I have learned so much truth from her, about myself. I don’t look attractive when my hair is wet. I do strange things with my hands when I drink my coffee. I am not quick enough to count my blessings. I gossip. I want to say to her, Baby, we are not all models.

On days like this I think of Mary – mother to son of God, mother to son of Man. I wonder if her children watched her, and if they noticed with their child eyes all the odd and the out of place. I wonder if she had to re-evaluate her beliefs about what constitutes sin.

Jesus, where on earth have you been? We’ve been sick with worry, looking everywhere for you. You aren’t old enough to be on your own – there are sick people in the world, and there are a million strange people running around this city. Anything might have happened to you. Do you have any idea what you’ve put me through? I told you we were getting ready to leave – why can’t you ever just pay attention??

C’mon, Mom. You know me. Didn’t you know I would be in my Father’s house?

Don’t you talk back to me. I AM YOUR MOTHER.

Maybe not. Maybe Mary and God had some good, long conversations about parenting, and Mary knew to look at the heart. Maybe she knew enough not to guilt. Maybe she knew enough not to worry. Maybe she knew that whatever befell, her children were in God’s hands.

But I know for certain that she was not perfect. I wonder if being a mother brought out every weak and faulty thing inside her. I wonder if she watched her pure little babies while they slept and worried about wrecking them. I wonder if those innocent eyes soaking her up ever made her want to crawl out of her skin, and if she ever dreamed of running away – getting a job working the counter at a coffee shop in Mississippi, squishing mud between her toes on the banks of a foreign river, smoking crawdads by the shore, no modelling, no responsibility, no refiner’s fire.

I wonder if she felt the grace pouring out of her children the way that I do. I wonder if she learned from her children, the way I learn from mine, what unconditional love looks like. I wonder if she took Jesus’ precious hands in hers and said, I’m so sorry, Jesus. I should not have yelled – and if she felt the God-love fill her when he kissed her and said, I’m sorry I wasn’t paying attention.