This morning I whispered a prayer, “Lord, please help me to
be patient with my children. I don’t
want to parent out of anger but out of love—all day.” Today was the day—I was going to lean into
God.
The war began at breakfast (of course). Not a war against
my children but the one for their
hearts. The bacon wasn’t crispy enough,
she complained. The ice in her juice
hurt her teeth. There were no “thank
yous,” no “pleases.” Demands smacked
hard. When I would normally sling biting
tones back about being grateful, today I just whispered my prayers. The Lord is so gracious to give wisdom when
we ask for it.
As my girls ate (or didn’t eat) their breakfast, I walked
back to my girls’ bedroom and started to pack up dolls, doll furniture, play
kitchen stuff…what felt like nearly every toy that China or Wal-Mart has to
offer…and quietly carried the boxes to the attic.
Then the pleas of my eldest began, “What are you doing? Why are you doing this?”
“I will explain it to you in a few minutes.”
I really wanted to rattle off the facts--how privileged they
are, that they are in less than five percent of the world’s population of
children who have this kind of stuff, this kind of food, this life of
ridiculous lagniappe, that there are starving children in the two-thirds world
who would love to trade places with them.
But I held all that in. None of
that would resonate with little round faces who just had almost all of their
possessions hauled off.
So I took a deep breath and for once in my life didn’t say
anything sarcastic.
I just sat Indian style on the floor of the big empty
bedroom and said, “This morning I
realized that I’ve messed up.” I
recounted their words to me at breakfast and then quietly said, “I want you to learn to be thankful, and the
one who is supposed to teach you that is me. I haven’t done that great of a job, so this
is just a little project we’re going to try for at least a week to see if it
helps you to appreciate what you have, to take care of your stuff, and to say
“please” and “thank you” to your mama and folks who do things for you.”
To my amazement, there’s been no weeping and gnashing of teeth
since our “Come to Jesus” meeting.
Instead, we’ve walked around a little more light-hearted today. We took our “read-aloud” book outside and sat on the quilt
in the shade this morning. They played
with the grass, made a card out of grass and construction paper and put it in
the mailbox. They found that an empty toy
box has all sorts of fun uses, like climbing in it for a boat. And some long lost toys that didn’t get
snatched up in the toy rapture were rediscovered.
The conversation has been hilarious: “Mama, I like this little thing we’re
doing. I don’t have to pick up so
much.” “Hey, when company comes, we can
just pick up our two things and have it all looking good.” “Mama, thanks for cleaning all the furniture
out of this doll house; I’ve been needing to dust it!” “You know what? We
have so much more time without all the stuff!” …and that from the mouth of a five-year-old.
Time. That illusive
thing that we crave while it slips through our fingers. If I’m not careful, my time with them will be
gone before I’ve had a chance to teach them all these things I’m dying for them
to understand. If I waste it, chances
are they will just grow into entitled adults—just larger versions of the
five-year-old who complains about her hot breakfast. I’ve seen an adult like that a few times…in
the mirror, and it’s a war for her heart too.
