What a mess.

I’m not talking about my kitchen.  Or my bathroom, or my closet, or even my junk drawer.  If you know anything about me, you know there are rarely any messes in my house.  My junk drawer has dividers and I know exactly what’s in each section.

I do need to brag a bit here, however, and tell you what currently remains intact in my son’s bedroom several days post-construction.  Let’s just say it involves quite a few sets of sheets, a dozen towels, and an entire roll of blue painting tape.  It isn’t the most structurally sound fort, but it takes up at least half of Charlie’s humble abode.  I’ll also let you know the other half of the room is taken up by legos, which are scattered all over the floor in no apparent pattern or organizational method whatsoever.  Clearly, my hundred dollar an hour therapy is working for me.

Unfortunately, the mess I’m talking about has nothing to do with forts.  It has nothing to do with dust or dirt or dishes in the sink or thousands of legos spread out on carpet I’d really like to vacuum. 
The mess I’m talking about is in my mind.  It’s in my heart.  It’s in my life.

I’m a mess.  I’m broken.  I’m damaged.  I’m flawed.  I’m a sinner.  I make lots and lots and lots and lots and lots - I’ll stop there but I could go on until 2064 – of mistakes.

I am a mess.

The truth? 

So are you.

Are your eyes widening in shock as you prepare to defend yourself until your death because, so help you, no idiot middle-aged stay at home mother who’s never done anything very important is going to tell you about your cleanliness?  If so, stop reading.  This post isn’t for you.

On the other hand, if you’ve read the book of Genesis, and you know a little something about the whole apple in the garden ordeal that separated mankind from God and means WE ARE ALL BROKEN, at least until Jesus returns, takes the fruit from that tree of knowledge of good and evil, and makes the most delicious apple pie we’ve ever tasted from it, forge ahead with me into my mess . . . and yours.  Because it’s there.  I assure you.  The Bible says so.

In a nutshell, the first three chapters of Genesis go something like this:  God made the world and everything in it, and it was all totally awesome.  He made a man in his image – his name was Adam - but the man couldn’t remember to pick up his clothes from the dry cleaners on time, so God made a woman from the man – her name was Eve - to be Adam’s helper.  Adam and Eve were living the good life.  They were living in this gorgeous slice of paradise called the Garden of Eden, which I imagine looked a lot like Maui a few centuries ago.  They spent their time running around unashamed, even though they were naked, enjoying all of the interesting and beautiful things God created, while also being in direct contact with the creator.  If you look up the definition of ‘Eden’ in the dictionary, it says Eden is a state of bliss, a delightful place, ultimate happiness. 

Kinda makes you want to visit, huh? 

So, Adam and Eve had it all.  Their lives were perfection.  Until . . . that nasty old snake showed up.  You see, when Eve got finished doing all those things she had to do as man’s helper, you know, cleaning toilets and folding laundry and making dentist appointments, she was hungry.  And I’ll be darned if that sneaky reptile didn’t convince Eve that the only thing she wanted to eat was a piece of fruit from the one tree in the entire garden that God said she couldn’t eat from.  Sure enough, she ate the apple.  Don’t you think Eve and Snow White would have been really good friends? 

The story goes on to tell us how Eve then convinced Adam to take a bite from the same apple.  Sucker.  But folks, the part you really need to understand is that when Eve chose to believe the lies of the snake (AKA Satan), and sink her perfect teeth into that forbidden fruit, we were all doomed. 

Damn her. 

In Genesis 3:14 God says, in response to what Adam and Eve had done, “Cursed are you . . .”   

I know.  It’s harsh.  God goes on to announce all the things that will now be wrong with our lives because of Adam and Eve's bad decision – fights between husbands and wives over how much a pair of shoes should cost, labor pains that feel like a steel cable being squeezed as tightly as possible around one’s stomach, ungrateful children who sneak out of the house at two in the morning to drink beer with their buddies, and on and on and on.

It’s really quite simple, if you think about it.  The story of the fall means we are fallen.  Adam and Eve ate the granny smith and we are a mess because of it.  We.  As in, ALL of us.

Now, I’m not going to get into the whole reason for the fall of mankind, but you really should learn about it if you haven’t already.  It involves this unbelievably cool dude named Jesus who comes to save mankind from their sin, and it’s like, the most incredible story you’ll ever hear.  It’s lengthy, no doubt.  Basically, you have to read the whole Bible to hear the whole story, but I guarantee, it’s worth every second it takes to read.  Mainly because the many seconds and minutes and hours it takes to read is nothing compared to what it’s about, which is eternity.

Still, we aren’t going there today.  Today, we’re sticking with our mess.

You see, what I’ve been thinking about a lot lately is . . . we need to be more comfortable with the mess in our life.  We need to be more open about it.  The mess is there.  It’s all around us, all the time.  And it’s dirty.  It’s ugly.  It makes us want to run and hide and pretend we don’t see it. 

We can probably clean up some of the mess.  It might take a great deal of work, serious amounts of prayer, and, if your mess is as big as mine, thousands of dollars worth of chatting with a trained professional.   I believe it is possible for us to make our lives less messy by changing our hearts and minds and actions.  But I don’t think we can clean up all of our mess.  Some of it we just need to accept as who we are.  We need to be comfortable with our mess, because it’s been there all along, in some form or fashion.

Maybe your mess involves addiction.  Maybe it’s about abuse.  Maybe your mess entails an eating disorder or a mental illness or an inability to keep commitments.  Maybe it has to do with overspending or anger management or maybe you’re having a torrid affair with your boss.  

My mess looks like an otherwise healthy wife and mother of two who longs to be counting her blessings instead of struggling with perfectionism, body image issues, insecurity, obsessive-compulsive tendencies, and severe anxiety.   Like I said, it’s dirty.  It’s ugly.  It makes me want to run and hide and pretend I don’t see it.  Most of all, it makes me want to run and hide and pretend no one else can see it. 

I'm not giving in to my mess.  I’m on a quest to clean up the mess in my life every single day . . . for my husband, for my children, for myself.  I think I’m making some progress, but I imagine my quest will be a long one.  In fact, it might be a lifelong one.

In the meantime, I’m learning to share my mess with others because, really, why wouldn’t I?  We’ve already determined I’m not the only person with a mess here.  If I refuse to share my mess with the people I love, I’m shutting them out.  And it works both ways.  If the people I love refuse to share their messes with me, in my opinion, they are rejecting me.  They are proclaiming cleanliness that doesn’t exist, and I don’t want to be a part of that.  I want to surround myself with people who are real, who are honest, who are authentic.  I want to spend my time with people who will go out to dinner with me, and over a glass of wine, tell me how badly they screwed up that day, and the day before that, and maybe even the day before that.  We can get around to counting our blessings too, after the second glass of wine perhaps, because in the end, no matter how big the messes in our lives are, there are always blessings to be found among the rubble. 

I guess what I’m truly after is a life filled with people who are willing to dive into the rubble . . . a life filled with people who aren't afraid to show me their rubble . . . a life filled with people who see my rubble, yet choose to walk inside of it with me, take my hand, pray with me, and help me sort through the mess to find the blessings we both know are there.

I respect most of the fathers I know for many different reasons. 

Some are excellent providers for their families.  They work long hours and often travel to gain financial freedoms that allow them to expose their children to wonderful experiences. 

Some are positive examples for their children because of their high moral standards.  They regularly exhibit the characters they hope to see their children display in the future. 

Some do a fabulous job of demonstrating the value of hard work.  They proudly take care of their homes, their yards, their bodies. 

Some have a teaching spirit, and strive to pass along important knowledge and skills.  They give up precious hours of time to help three year olds learn to kick a soccer ball down a field without tripping over it.

And some fathers have abs like Matthew McConaughy, so good for them.  They’re doing their part to keep their wives happy.  (I really do know a dad like that.  I almost ran off the road one day because as I was driving down the street, he happened to be running down the same street with his shirt off.  Hyperventilating while driving is dangerous my friends.) 

I admire such fathers a great deal.  They love their families and they’re doing the things they must do in order to be the best husbands and fathers they can be. 

My husband is sufficient in all those areas himself.  Well . . . maybe not the part about the abs, but the other things. 

He works hard to be successful in his career and provide for our family.  His actions show he is an honest and decent human being.  He treats all people, including his wife, with enormous respect and unconditional love.  He has even coached tee-ball and basketball teams for kids who could barely catch a ball, much less field a grounder and throw it to a first baseman digging in the dirt for worms.

I’m incredibly fortunate my husband is willing to make the effort and sacrifices necessary to be a good father.  Still, it’s not what he does each day to help our family that inspires me.

It’s his attitude. 

My husband has the ability to remain completely present in his role as a daddy.  He enjoys every moment he spends with our children.  He neglects his own needs to be with them, and the crazy part is, he doesn’t do it because he feels he has to.  He doesn’t do it so he can proclaim he’s making every effort in his power to succeed as a father.  He devotes his entire heart and soul to our family because there is nothing in the world he would rather do. 

Fatherhood never seems to be synonymous with duty to my husband.  When he is playing with our kids, he doesn’t think about the other things he could or should be doing.  He remains invested in the act of each particular moment.  He isn’t worried about what to make for dinner.  He isn’t thinking about a meeting he has the following day.  He isn’t wondering whether he remembered to close the garage door.  He is smiling and laughing and having the time of his life.  He places all his energy and enthusiasm into the enjoyment of his children, without letting life creep in to steal his focus.

I want so desperately to be able to live in the now the way my husband does.  Many days, when I’m engaged with my children, I’m not relishing in it as I should.   I'm physically there.  I'm listening to my children and speaking to them.  I'm answering questions and helping with homework and chatting about plans for the weekend.  But I'm not fully present.  Part of me is worrying about the emails I need to answer.  Another part is making a mental grocery list.  I'm thinking about the past or the future or anything but how precious the gift is that I'm receiving at that very moment . . . to be among the two people I love more than life itself. 

Some nights, when my son asks me to lie in bed with him for “just one more minute,” I decide the five minutes I’ve already spent with him is enough.  I tell him I have work to do downstairs.  I leave my precious boy, all snuggled up in his jammies under the warm covers, and I go downstairs so I can transfer wet clothes from the washing machine to the dryer.  

The tears fall in regret and all I can think is, God . . . forgive me. 

I love my children. I love them with that relentless love only a parent can understand.  I see stars in their eyes and perfection in their bones and magic in their futures.  Sometimes, it's as though the only emotion I can feel is the incredible love I have for my children.  It consumes every other thought or feeling I've ever known and becomes my sole intent for living.  When my children are away from me, I feel as though I can’t function, because my body is no longer mine, but a willing puppet dancing to the songs playing in their hearts.  Sometimes, I look at Charlie and Libby, and everything in the world is just as it's supposed to be.  There is nothing except amazement and joy and gratitude, and my soul swells to the point that I can actually feel it throbbing with passion.

There is only one other person who understands the depth of love I feel for my children.  He understands it because he feels it too.  Because he knows the immeasurable pain that comes when one of them is hurting.  Because when they are filled with happiness, so is he.  Because he can't look at their baby pictures without crying.  Because their giggles are the most beautiful sound he's ever heard.  Becasue they are growing too fast and his heart aches as he feels time slipping away. 

Yes, there is only one other person who understands how much I love my children.  He is my husband.  He is their father.  He is the greatest daddy I've ever met. 

And night after night, he will lie in bed with our son until he falls asleep.  No matter how long it takes.

HAPPY FATHER'S DAY!!!

A dear friend of mine (she will be known in this post as 'L') recently sent me the following email.  It's a recount of a conversation she had with her four year old son (he will be known as 'B'). And yes, I realize I need a little help with my code names - they are entirely lacking in creativity. Nevertheless, please read the following transaction of words between mother L and son B . . .

B: Mommy, there’s someone that I’m getting in love with.

L: Really, who?

B: Ummm… a girl. She has yellow hair.

L: Does she go to your school?

B: No

L: Did you meet her at Sunday School yesterday?

B: No

L: Hmmm… how do you know her?

B: I don’t know, I just do.

L: Well, does this girl your “getting in love with” have a name?

B: Yes…. Libby.

After reading this email, I laughed so hard I almost cried. Then, I really did cry.

What a tangle of emotions swirled through my mind as I thought about a boy loving my only daughter. I think my initial reaction was, quite honestly, pride. I want my children to be loved by others and I'm proud when others find them lovable. Especially when those others are non-family members who have absolutely no requirement to love them. Hey, let's face it, even their biological mother (aka ME) can occasionally have trouble finding the lovableness in Charlie and Libby. They're cute and all, but there are days when my daughter walks out the door in the morning and all I want to do is flip her off behind her back. That doesn't sound a whole lot like love if you ask me, but it's hard to find someone lovable after they've complained about every single thing you've done and said and toasted and buttered and sliced and poured and brushed and zipped and tied for them since the moment they woke up.

Damn.  My conscience is screaming at me.  I had all kinds of great ideas for this post piroetting around in my head and now I've been staring at the screen for fifteen minutes while my brain fires blanks.  It looks like I can't go on until I confess, so here goes.

I really did flip Libby off one morning when she walked out the door to go to school. 

Your mouth just dropped to the floor, didn't it?  I knew that would happen.

It's not nearly as bad as it sounds.  I mean, she didn't actually see my finger fly into the air in all it's erect glory.  As far as she knows, her mother only gave her a hug and a kiss and a big, smiley "Have a great day and be your best self and I love you, honey!" when she walked out the door that morning.  My middle finger remained firmly in it's most polite place until the door to the garage was properly shut and there was absolutely no way my daughter (nor her brother or father) could see the obsene gesture I was rudely sending her way.

In my defense, I have yet to forgive myself for doing it.  Still, I can't promise I won't do it again. Because, like all people, my kids aren't always very loveable.

I suppose I haven't actually hit the phase of life when my children have become aware of their need for love from others.  Of course, they've always known love, so why would they have any understanding of the stops we will pull out to make others love us.  And we really will pull out some serious stops, won't we?  We will go to great extremes for love.  We will do and say and plan and buy things we have no business doing or saying or planning or buying simply to win the affections of someone we deem important. 

I remember my first crush in intense detail.  He was older and adorable and a football player with a convertible and . . . he wasn't interested.  He had no desire to take advantage of my longing to make him love me.  At the time, his rejection felt like the precursor to the world ending.  Twenty-two years later, I'm grateful that boy didn't want to love me.  In fact, I shudder to think what I might have been willing to do to retain his love had he chosen to give it to me.

It won't be long before my daughter wants to earn someone's love.  And I'm not merely thinking about  Libby starting high school one day and deciding the junior wide receiver with the bulging biceps and the cool car makes her tummy tingle.  I imagine my daughter will discover her desire for love long before she discovers boys.  Humans, and especially girls, have an inherent need to belong, and I have no doubt there will be another female in Libby's life in the coming years who will have the ability to make my daughter change the way she looks, talks, and acts, all for the sake of acceptance. 

I also realize there will be a day when someone's refusal to love her breaks my daughter's heart.  L's  little boy thinks Libby is beautiful.  He thinks he loves her, and in the way only a five-year-old can, he probably does.  But one day, there will be a boy who doesn't.  One terrible, horrible, awful day, there will be a boy who isn't interested in loving Libby, and my daughter will struggle through a season of life when she feels as though everything about the world is wrong, that she's wrong. 

Surprisingly, it isn't the thought of my daughter suffering a broken heart that makes my eyes fill with hot, heavy tears.  It's the thought of Libby with a full heart.  It's the thought of her with a heart so swollen in adoration it must act; it simply can't go another day without making a public declaration for all to see.  Because further down this road of mothering, after the clicks and the crushes and the unrequited love have made scars on my daughter's soul that will never fully fade, another kind of love will enter her life. A colossal kind of love.  A love that feels right and true and unbreakable.  A love that makes Libby's confidence soar and her body sing and her world spin into an oblivion of happiness.  And when that time comes, my only daughter will make one of the most monumental decisions of her life, and of mine.  She will choose to leave our family and create her own.

The tears fall freely as I think of that day. The day our daughter walks out of our arms and into his. It seems so far into the future, but as my first nine years as a mother have proven, time flies when you're having fun (and as a parent, even when you're not).  Libby will walk down an aisle in the blink of an eye, and while I want that for her, if she wants it for herself of course, I can't imagine what it must feel like to witness your child love like that.  And I think what scares me most is the idea that in order for my daughter to love someone in such an enormous way, and to do it well, she must first love herself.  I have to teach Libby to love herself.

What an immense responsibility.  So huge and daunting, it takes my breath away. 

How do I help my daughter see there is more to her than her outward appearance?  How do I make her realize she is not merely a sum of knowledge and skills?  How do I convince her to understand her worth as a human being can never come from accomplishments and assets?

I suppose there is really just one answer.  I have to teach Libby the truth. I have to instill in her the belief that she is wonderfully and fearfully made by a creator whose love for her is immeasureable and unending. I have to teach my daughter that although she will never be perfect, she was made by a perfect God, and she will always be his.  When other girls leave her out of their games and she's standing alone on the playground without a friend in sight, God loves her.  When the cute boy with the cool car asks someone else to prom, God loves her.  When she looks in the mirror and sees only flaws, God loves her.

The only way Libby can learn how to love herself and love others, is to know what true love is. I simply have to point my daughter towards the one and only author of true love. And while I do it, I have to remember one very important thing . . . God loved the world so much that he gave his one and only son.  He would not condone flipping anybody off. 




  

The words came out of his mouth and the tears instantly sprung to my eyes, blurring my vision and making my throat feel as though it was inhabited by a softball.  I clenched the steering wheel and blinked several times, attempting to focus on the road rising in front of me, which suddenly seemed very long and very dark.  I tried to think of something, anything to say that would sound right, that would make sense, that would force him to understand.  Nothing came to mind.   

“Mom, you talk about the Bible too much.”

His words didn’t have a harsh tone, and yet, they inflicted a pain I can’t possibly describe.  It wasn’t physical pain, exactly.  It wasn’t as if I’d been punched in the stomach and knocked to the ground and stomped on repeatedly.  It hurt within.  It ached in a place so deep I didn’t know it existed.  It was as if my soul was trembling. 

What if . . .?

What if my prayers don’t work?

What if he goes another way?

What if he makes a different decision; moves in the opposite direction? 

Despite everything I think I’m doing to lead him down the path I believe to be the right one . . . the only one . . . what if my son doesn’t choose God?

It could happen.  It’s happened before.  I imagine it happens every day, in almost every nation on earth.  A mother teaches her child the truth.  She reads the truth and speaks the truth and models the truth in the best ways she can.  And yet, her child doesn’t believe it.  He questions.  He doubts.  He strays and wonders and ends up so far from the truth it seems he’ll never be able to find his way back. 

I will love him forever.  I will love him no matter what.  I’ve told him that many times and I mean it.  I mean every word, every time I say it.  He is my son and I will always love him. 

I want him to choose God.  There will be a cavernous hole in my heart if he doesn’t.  But in the end, the decision is his.  He gets to decide what he believes and I have to accept him regardless of the decision he makes.  Strange isn’t it?  How one person’s choice can have such profound meaning in another person’s life. 

What if my son doesn’t choose God?

I guess the answer is really quite simple.

I will love him forever.  I will love him no matter what.  I will always love him.

And I will never stop praying he changes his mind.