Saturday, March 4, 2017
Being Better: Lent Lessons
Sometimes I get hit with the sheer monotony and awfulness of motherhood, particularly being a stay-at-home parent. Sometimes the books my kids choose for me to read to them are absolute drivel. The laundry literally never ends. The crying child who fights with a sibling day in, day out. The whining of a hungry baby just as you are preparing their food. On these occasions, I feel like I could've been out in the world, writing for a magazine, exposing truths and making a difference. Even though I know in my head and heart that this is where I'm supposed to be, I admit I fail to see how I'm contributing to a greater good.
This Wednesday I had a particularly bad moment. But it was Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent. I started the day mindful of my Lent decision to give up procrastination - after all, it is often failure on my part to plan and do that makes things overwhelming around here. But inevitably a fight started between my two middle boys. Light sabers were taken, and my 3-year-old, a pathetic little being, sat on the floor wailing, "I need a hug! I nee-eed a hu-uh-uhg!"
Though I was making my oldest's lunch, I knew it would just less stressful to stoop down and hug him than to listen to him yell at me. So I hugged him. I hugged him tight and tried to feign genuine love for this kid that I just (if I'm honest) wanted to send back to bed. But as I hugged him it hit me:
I caught a glimpse of the crucifix and saw Jesus, His arms outstretched, His head pierced with thorns, and it hit me. What is it to hug a child? A crying, snot-covered, angry child.
If I'm supposed to be walking this walk, giving that hug just might be my version of taking up the Cross. But it's a difficult task in the recesses of my home, with only me to keep myself in check and attuned to all the incessant needs.
Yesterday, that same child walked into a room full of people, wailing. Immediately I crouched down to his level, opened wide my arms and gave him the hug I knew he would need. He accepted it, wiped his eyes and went back out to play with the other kids.
"Do not practice your piety before others," from Ash Wednesday's readings came flashing into my mind. It was so easy to get down on the floor with my boy when a room full of people was watching, and I'll admit, I wanted to make sure I was seen being a kind, nurturing mother. I love my kids, and it's not all for show, but we all have to admit it is so much easier to do something when it makes you feel as good as public recognition or acknowledgement from others.
This is the reason it's so difficult to fold the laundry for six people, or clean that dish that came out of the dishwasher still a bit dirty. To clean that day-old spot on the wall, or sort the junk drawer. It is why it is so hard to respond kindly to the kid who wakes you up at 3 a.m.
Nobody sees it. Only sometimes do you get a "thanks" and there is always more.
However, I'm continually being shown that simply doing, not for gratification or acknowledgement is much nobler, and more challenging. It's a test of true strength and character to hug and snuggle a toddler who may or may not be on the verge of throwing up on you. But it's also in loving the utterly helpless and sometimes unlovable that is a mother's daily call.
Simply doing to be disciplined in my tasks, and simply doing because I must take great care of the gifts I've been given, both human and material. I'm realizing that this vocation of mother and wife that I chose, fraught with lonely little tasks, is a actually an opportunity.
It's an opportunity to love and serve and make a difference. And maybe it's just in five or more lives in the depths of domesticity, but even so, it's transforming me ever so slowly into someone better.