We were cleaning and organizing the garage the other night and I ran across a box of stacks of papers from my childhood, from grade school and from home. Books, report cards, valentines cards, pictures, crafts, projects from school and projects I did at home all sat patiently as I picked through them and took a vivid trip down memory lane with each. My mind was flooded with smells, sounds, memories, loves, losses and hurts as I picked through the stack. . I teared up and giggled to myself as I dug through them. I found myself mourning that loss of freedom, my childhood, my parents broken marriage, my childhood friends, the home where I grew for 11 years, my closeness to my sister, and ultimately the simplicity of being a child. I laughed as I read the nearly incomprehensible story books I wrote growing up, the valentines cards I received from grade school classmates that I now am blessed to be able to stay in contact with via Facebook, pictures and notes from my best friend at the time, Rachel Dotson, get well notes from my classmates for the various occasions that I was sick and the many more occasions where I faked being sick for weeks at a time, old child I.D. cards, notes and drawings I made for my parents, pictures upon pictures telling the tale of my childhood obsession with horses, horse books, horse pictures, horse calendars, horse drawings, horse posters, horse anything.
I had an epiphany, as I was siphoning through the papers, about what my job is. If I can give my children, Elijah and Judah and whoever else God blesses us with, a childhood that was as fulfilling as the childhood my parents provided for me, I will be satisfied in my ability to mother. They taught me how to seek after Jesus. They taught me that they were trustworthy, that they would love me in all circumstances. They allowed me, a challenge though it was at times I'm sure, to be myself. (big rabbit trail coming up) My hoarding, pat rack, messy and unorganized self. My dad spent hours upon hours with me out in the "big garage" teaching me how to build things. I would plead with him to come out to the garage and put a pile of nails and some wood down for me to play with. This was the best toy he ever gave me! I LOVED that time with my father and a lot of that had to do with, I'm sure, his support of who I was. To this day making things is very therapeutic for me. There is a bit of my dad in every piece (unprofessional though they appear) of furniture I build. He supported a love of mine and helped it grow. I still like to take pictures of things I've made and email them to Dad. I love the pride in his face when he sees what I've made and I love hearing him choke up when I tell him that he has a lot to do with my love for building things. My mother spent hours reading poetry to me on the days I was home sick, (legitimately sick or not...though she never knew the difference :). We would sit on the couch and read out of the "Childcraft" books volume 1, "Poems of Early Childhood". I found such peace in this time spent with my mother reading by her side. I wrote poetry and short stories as a child (and have shared a rare few with a rare few of people for a very good reason....they aren't good. :) I still LOVE poetry, to read and to write it!) She would take me to Pamida and we'd load up on popsicle sticks, cotton balls, beads and whatever other cheap things I could find to feed my creative bent. We'd come home and I'd spent an hour or two hidden away in my room making whatever I could think up out of the craft supplies she'd purchased for me and the piles of garbage hidden in my closet that I'd scavenged from the trash pales around the house. My mother loathed my tendency to rummage through the trash and "stash" things away in my closet, but she allowed me to do so to encourage who she saw I was. She allowed me to be myself in this way. I am much less of a pack rat than I was as a young child, but I will be the first to admit that I remain a "stasher" (as my mom put it) and my husband will attest to the menagerie of items we have moved from house to house simply for the sake of a possibility of using them to "make" something with them someday. And I do. We do not move them in vain. :)
Elijah is young yet for me to have much of a chance of noticing tendencies that he has (other than just being a typical boy), but I am getting better about seeking out loves of his. Will he like to create things like I do? Will he like to read poetry like I do? Will he be a book worm like his dad and spend endless time with his nose in between pages? What will Judah be like as Elijah's age? What will be grow to love? What will give him peace and be something they will remember as 27 year old men that I helped them do growing up?
The things I am called to do as a mother are overwhelming but oh so simple in their nature. I am called to teach my children, first and foremost, to seek after Jesus with all they are. (forgive me if my grammar gets a little whacky. I was writing "he" and "his" when I realized that it is now "they" "their" and "them".. :)Teach them to follow Jesus and grow their hearts ever bigger for the lost and weary in this world. Seek to be like Jesus, know Jesus and love Jesus more than even his own self. (how the heck do you teach that? Monkey see, monkey do. I have been anything but a consistent example in this area and the irony lies in the fact that simply seeking Jesus, loving Jesus and knowing Jesus with all my being would in turn make me a better mother...) Grow who Elijah and Judah are. Help them nurture what they love (Elijah loves to beat on things, rip and break...how do I grow that in to something productive? Ufta!) Encourage creativity in the areas I see it arise. Accept them and love them without question whether I feel like it or not on any given day. (for Elijah, simply being a 3 year old lends itself to having a mother who is often annoyed and irritated and finds it hard to muster up motivation to sit down and grow creativity out of fear at the risk of battling yet another fit or whining episode - mother's of 3ish year olds, I'm sure you are sensitive to my weariness). I protect my boys against harm ,whether it be physical or emotional (it's hard to admit that I have, at times, been the very source of emotional harm - I'm sure every parent is sensitive to this - good thing God is gracious and that our children still love us! I've inserted foot in to mouth a few times too late, in my parenting days, at the height of frustration.) I find myself at my strongest in this area when it comes to spiritual protection. Elijah has struggled (as I have from a very VERY young age) with nightmares. We know the source of fear. We know the source of doubt, of anxiety. Night time for me, when my defenses are down, is prime time for attack. Satan uses this to his advantage if I am not diligent in protecting myself from it with prayer. He targets my children, and I tell you what, that gets my gander up for sure! I DO NOT put up with Satan striking fear in to the hearts of my little ones! NO SIR! He has no place in their hearts, their room, or our house. This is not his house! I walked in to Elijah's room, back when he was 18 months or so, for the 3rd night in a row. I was frustrated with his persistent crying and confused at what had been waking him so often the past few nights. I knelt down by his bed to stroke his hair and looked in to eyes that were wide open, bloodshot from crying and held a look of fear. I knew what I was up against. It took only moments to remind that bastard, Satan, who is boss. Surely not him! Silly, Satan is, to think he can mask himself from me. I am well versed in his tactics! He is a rotten SOB and I recognize him quickly when it comes to nightmares (I suppose he masked himself well for 2 nights in a row, but he doesn't any more!)
That was a long rabbit trail all to say I am called to protect my children.
Love them, protect them, help them grow, nurture their loves, show them Jesus. It isn't "nothing" I do all day. Even if I haven't done the dishes in a few days or our outfits each day are pulled from a wrinkly basket full of clean clothes, or we ALL have "Tyson" chicken nuggets, cheese chunks and cold canned green beans for dinner, I have done my job if I have loved, protected, grown, nurtured, and showed (Jesus) (and I know thats not grammatically correct) my children. It's the hardest job their is, but it's so easy. Be like Jesus, yikes! Thats NOT easy! No wonder I'm getting more bald with each passing day. :)
My childhood was incredible! My parents loved, protected, nurtured, growed (I know, I know!) and showed (I know!) me. If I can do this for my boys, for all our children, phew, I will have achieved much, indeed!
