Tonight we went to the library, me and the three kiddos (my husband had to work late), to sign up for a reading program. It was a sweet little story time with music and coloring and snacks (and, of course, a story).
We were among the first to arrive (because there is NEVER "on time" in this house-- only super early or late). There were a few children sitting quietly on some carpet squares laid neatly on the floor. My oldest wasted no time showing the other children that the carpet squares were not there to sit on, but to PLAY with! When one mother chastised her son for picking up one of the squares, I felt shame radiating red from my heart to my face. The message was clear to me even if she never meant to send it: If you were a good mom and a good citizen, you would not be letting your children mess with the carpet squares.
Meanwhile, I had let my two-year-old out of the stroller to risk him being out of control rather than listen to his piercing howl at being fastened in. He went to join his sister in moving and picking up all the neatly organized squares -- does anyone else's children behave like this?
Chaos ensued. Okay, maybe not actual chaos in the library, but chaos in my heart, in my brain, in my nerves. When my daughter got up in the middle of the story to go stand right in front of the storyteller, I felt those nerves like a carpet burn. Then my youngest climbed out of the stroller (what one-year-old is able to get out of his stroller by himself?!) I had to set down the middle one (who ran to the unguarded cookie table, I might add) to pick up the climber -- severe carpet burn on the nerves. When the evening (can I call it an evening when it was just half an hour?) finally ended, I was counting down my daughter to come with me while carrying a screaming and kicking two-year-old to the stroller.
By the time we walked in our front door, I was miserably short-tempered, and yelled much more than I care to admit or remember. Later, I tried to comfort myself with the thought that God gave my children me as a mother, that He chose me, and that whatever quirks I have, He still picked me for them. He could have given them any mother in the world, but He picked me.
Then I realized, it's not about me.
Have you ever been on a missions trip? You go to a less privileged group of people expecting to dramatically influence them, bring about some good in their lives that they can't do themselves. Sometimes I get delusional before the trip and think it's about us helping them. But more often than not, I realize that I am touched and transformed by their situation and often by their faith. In the end, they help me understand more about God's love and faithfulness and ultimately readjust my life attitude.
It's the same with my kids.
While God certainly picked me to be their mommy, He picked them to be my kids. He could have given me children who sit quietly for pinterest-inspired crafts. He could have given me children who love to look at books quietly for long periods of time. But He didn't.
He gave me my kids, bursting with energy to the point where I think it might actually harm them to sit still. My kids, who rarely get to help wash the dishes because they'll bang them against the sink until they break.
Although I've often thought that parenting refines and shapes people, I'd never considered that God gave me these specific children to refine and shape me in specific ways.
It's not easy, and I'm sure I'll wake up tomorrow and yell some more, but maybe seeing my kids as God's shaping tool will help. Help me open my mind in those moments of carpet-burned nerves. Maybe I'll be able to see through my own emotions and know that God has something to teach me beyond "be a better mother". Maybe He wants to speak to my laziness or selfishness or hurried-ness. Maybe in those unglued moments, He wants to chisel away something ugly to reveal beauty underneath.
"Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my thoughts. Point out anything in me that offends you, and lead me along the path of everlasting life." Psalm 139:23-24, NLT
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