HOLY

They lie in sinless sleep, blankets tossed, half off the bed

brows and cheeks begging to be kissed

reverently, like sacred

bodies weighted with the breath of the angels

keeping vigil by their beds.

Devotion moves in ruffles like feathers,

in pulses through my body like blood to the heart,

sapping wearied anger from my veins,

sweeping away thoughts of stained or spilled or torn,

all self removed.

Only Love moves in this air,

fills it, demands the space,

giving the faintest nod to contrition

obeisant in the doorway.

Love presses cells in Hands like a vice

lest they combust from beauty,

lest I behold and die.

This hard hewn floor is holy ground,

eternal, magnetic,

pulling me to my knees

to kiss toes, unwashed,

nails etched with mud,

to bless the Lord, O my soul,

to confess, I am unworthy,

to keep silent vigil with the guardians

till eyelids open,

till the new mercy dawns.

 

 

POSTPARTUM

I don’t remember worrying about much before I had children. I put off till tomorrow, I slept peacefully in airplanes, I chatted with strangers on buses – I lived day to day. I didn’t worry about a lot of things I worry about now, like crashing and stranger danger and falling out of tree houses. Parenting has a way of adding new levels of awareness. There are so very many things you could worry about, if you were so inclined.

I wonder very often about why I was chosen – why I was chosen to be mother to my three beautiful children. They’re each so very different – different from me, different from one another. They are so incredible in the here and now, and so filled with potential. Sometimes I just don’t have a clue. I worry about wrecking them. I think maybe God didn’t factor in all the risks when they were placed into my hands. Maybe God hadn't read my Family History.

I know a lot of amazing women, but I have not met one yet who makes me think to myself, Yes, I would let you raise my children. You are everything I wish I could be for them. You would draw out everything in my children that I wish I knew how. You would not wreck them in any way. For all my limitations, when I start to think about whom besides me could raise my children if I were not around, I look at all the people I love the best and I become very, very aware of flaws.

I do not think, I am looking for someone to raise My beloved only begotten Son,Word made flesh, helpless baby. Hey, there’s this teenager – I think she’s about fourteen. She's engaged to a man she barely knows – a blue-collar type, who works with his hands. My Son will tarnish his reputation – the timing will be ‘off’. Now, there is always the possibility that he will not love My Son in the same way as he will love the ones made in his own image. And My Son will most likely become fodder for playground gossip – ‘He doesn’t know his real father. His parents weren’t married when his mom got pregnant. They had to get married. His dad only married his mom because he’s a nice guy, and he didn’t want her to get stoned.’ Yes, yes, off to a great start. They shall be his parents.

God wasn’t worried.

God could not have done more to establish just exactly how much He was not worried. God put Jesus into the care of a teenage girl and a carpenter, dropped him into their arms in a stable surrounded by the smells and sounds of animals – the furthest thing from safe or sanitary, with nowhere else to go – far, far away from home, on purpose.

The thing that I have to keep reminding myself over and over again is, it is not about me.

I knew this before my children were born – before they ever moved inside me – when I didn’t know who they were or all that they would need. I was only a vessel. No angel spoke it to me, and yet I pondered it in my heart. But sometimes I forget. I need to be reminded.

You are blessed among women – you are the chosen. I have not given you to My children – I have given My children to you. These children are gifts.These children will bless you and bring joy to your soul. They will absolutely change your world. Open your heart wide to receive, and let the God love fill you. It is not about worthy – it is only about willing.

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.

TRAINING UP A CHILD

I know a lot about sin – where the seeds are, how they root and grow into underground webbings, making beanstalks overnight. I have Master’s Class experience. Since I became a mother, I don’t let myself get quite so buried under rocks about it. I haven’t scratched the surface on holy, but I sure understand mistakes better.

I have an alphabet and a label maker for spelling out soul struggles like separation anxiety, obsessive compulsive, attention deficit and inadequate impulse control. I have a lot of people – some professional, some not so much – advising me all the time what and what not to do. In the midst of that I try to laugh and be wise, and not exhibit signs of oppositional defiance disorder. I monitor the level of my outside voice, and I try not to let aggression turn passive. I try not to quench the spirit. I dodge prescriptions. I study DaVinci and Martha Stewart and Simon foot-in-mouth Peter. I look for precious gifts to polish – for anything true, excellent, worthy of praise. I see, clear as a glass house, how frustration can wear a spirit down. Try this, maybe that, persistent, consistent, don’t blink, don’t sweat, don’t ever drop the ball. I give thanks to God that I already know how to sweep to the corners of error. I give deep thanks to God for swimming in grace.

I do not want my children to hurt.

But sometimes they will hurt. Sometimes they will hurt other people. From my side of it, some days I’m not sure which of those is harder. I put tape over the mouths of old-time voices in my head that lob guilt bombs. Didn’t your mother teach you NOT to – crumple your homework, colour on walls, kick off your shoes, leave the house without socks, gossip, yell, wipe your mouth on your sleeve, hammer nails in your dresser, say f**k, punch people? There are an awful lot of don’ts to remember, in between Family History forms and permission slips and reading and math and World Peace. Sometimes I just want a t-shirt that reads, Don’t tell me what to do.

Few people really like error. It is offensive. It is annoying. It is distracting. It is wounding. It is hurtful. It is messy. It is damaging to relationships. It is very, very time-consuming. It is better not to make mistakes – so you have life, time, money, energy, limbs and relationship for all the right choices you want to make. If I could take mistakes away, I would. Maybe.

The truth is, I believe Jesus when he says, The one who is forgiven much, loves much. And I so badly want my children to love much. I so badly want them to grasp and wield the unsurpassed power of forgiveness and to build their lives on a foundation of grace. I don’t want them to ever think to paint white.

But I still let them peek at what the paint looks like, and I show them how to hold the brush. I tell them all the rules. I speak the words, Be good, as they go out the door and I hear God say to me, sharp, urgent, with the outside voice. Stop, My child. Stop. That is not how I have taught you.   

 Just as I am. I have to get brave to tell my children what I know – all the priceless that God has shown me through the pining of my sin and error. Do justly, love mercy, walk humbly with God. Do not be afraid of pain. Do not fall into sin – do whatever you do on purpose. Own your choices, and learn from them. If it’s a mistake, then it’s a mistake. Tell the truth to yourself and to God – God will speak Truth to you. God is Grace. All is grace.