In all honesty, pre-school and toddler aged boys are varying shades of heinous on a regular basis. There is lots of (naturally, inexplicably present) bathroom humor, there are multiple episodes of public humiliation per week involving somebody screaming about farting in the grocery store, and let me not get started on the colorful language. While I'm hoping, as promised, that my kids are more 'abuse-proof' for knowing the proper names of any and all genitalia, I am also super pumped about all the times Joey has screamed 'penis' in mixed company. (Don't bother praying for humility, just pop out a couple of young male children and let your life circumstances round off your sharp, prideful edges.)
|Insisted on wearing a woman's fedora. I don't know.|
Redeemed, yes, but not all at once, and not by some magical divine intervention that has rendered me gentle, compassionate, and humble. Nope, not this girl. It's more of an arduous, day-by-day struggle to choose them - and in so choosing, to choose Him - over myself.
At 5 am when somebody is crying to eat. At 6:40 am when somebody is kicking the frigging closet doors hard enough to rattle the house because 'the sun is almost up!' At 10:56 when it's apparently already time for our first lunch of the day. And more than any other time, at 4:00 pm when all hell hath been loosed upon this house and tempers are flaring and patience is wavering and so.much.screaming. Mostly mine. But increasingly, I'm trying to keep my voice out of the cacophony and to just smile and maybe even laugh at them. Because why the hell not laugh at them? They're ridiculous. I'm ridiculous. This life in its present state is ridiculous. I acknowledge this fully. Having a baby every 19 months for 4 years is insane. Staying home with them is a huge investment in time and energy - and at no little cost to my own mental health. But what's the alternative? Summers in Paris?
I mean, we did 3 seasons in Rome. And let me be the first to confess it was less than glamorous. Without kids? It would have been so different. But so would I.
Meaner. Smaller minded. Less fun. Less fulfilled. Maybe a little prettier, but not on the inside.
I'm not saying having children is the solitary path to goodness and holiness. By no means. But it's my path. They're not a means to an end, either, though, these children of mine. They're irreplaceable, incorrigible, immortal human beings with unique personalities, desires, and preferences about public urination. And they are testing the hell out of me.
Heinously, humorously, one awful, triple, 90-minute pediatrician visit at a time.
So if my life sounds like hell, it's because that's surely where I would end up, were it not for all the daily, hourly opportunities for sanctification this child army provides me with. I had this epic revelation the other day while I was wiping a snottysnottysnotty nose for the millionth time and much to the dismay of the nose's owner and, well, maybe I went in a little too enthusiastically, a little angrily even, with my diaper wipe. And it occurred to me, unbidden: you're wiping the wounds of Christ.
Immediately my hand went limp, and I was honestly ashamed of how vigorously I'd been attacking those innocent boogers.
Would I treat Jesus this way? Even when I found Him to be inconvenient, disgusting even? Would I ever use this much force/this tone of voice/this disposition of heart?
Game-changer, that moment.
Even though they don't much look like Him, not when they're covered in ketchup and vomit, anyhow, they are my little, living icons of Christ. And how I love them…it's a direct reflection on the sincerity of my love for Him.
God help me love them better. Help me love You in them. And for Your sake, give me some divinely inspired potty training wisdom. Because there's a heinous shitload of diapers in my trashcans right now.