Molly is a working girl turned working mom turned stay-at-home mom of three kids under four. She spends her days wiping bottoms, burning toast and is continuously blown away at how God reveals Himself, even in the details of this seemingly chaotic and thankless season of motherhood. Molly and her husband David live in Fresno, California where they raise three tiny loud people.
After about two-and-a-half months of resenting my neighbors, I felt a gentle nudge: Hey, so remember all that basic, Gospel 101 stuff about loving your neighbor as yourself? Yes, of course I remember. But surely that command didn’t refer to THESE neighbors. They are here illegally. Can’t I just stick to loving the other sweet neighbors across the street, instead? They’re much easier to love.
But what if this Christmas, we chose a different way?
My problem wasn’t my litany of mom-fails; my problem was my misplaced identity. I’d been measuring my worth on a scale of everything but Jesus. Pinterest, Martha Stewart, the gluten-free Joneses…I was speeding on the expressway to fruitless living.
We, the church, have failed and we fall short, but we already intimately know how beautiful and mysterious God’s grace is. Let’s accept it again and watch in awe as it covers these very failures to unimaginable depths. Let’s live this thing out, let’s work out our salvation in fear and trembling, letting God work though us to fulfill His purpose.
My 3-year-old son broke his tibia two months ago. This daredevil child (who I pulled out of the zoo’s alligator pit by his feet a few months back), fractured his leg by – get this – jumping from the coffee table to the couch. Seriously? The kid has fallen from a 7-foot high play structure without a scratch, yet landing on the soft couch was apparently awkward enough to score us three trips to Children’s Hospital and a bright orange cast from toe to mid-thigh.
My husband and I decided to plant a vegetable garden this year. Actually, I casually suggested that we should plant a vegetable garden, and then my sweet husband built us a planter, researched the heck out of compost and nitrogen and carbon and lots of other garden words. While he’s been pouring over gardening websites and NPR gardening specials, I have also been busy with equally important, garden-related business. Like day dreaming about our ripe tomatoes and basil; grocery bags so overflowing with our garden’s future bounty that after finishing a little Caprese salad, I’m frolicking through the neighborhood to dole out fresh produce to all.
Raising three kids under four is like working at a spa. You spend all your energy helping other people get comfortable. You watch them relax, eat and do their favorite things all day long. They’re living the dream. But you? You’re hungry, exhausted and just when you’re about to take your lunch break, someone has soiled himself and you need to give him a bath…Okay, fine I’ve never been to a spa.
Back to last weekend.