Leading by example

"Do you know why I asked you to read that?"

I was met with silence, as they contemplated whether they should say what they were really thinking.

You see, so far this morning hadn't been going well. It all started with a marital spat over chores. Once my hubby left for work, I thought I had settled it all--prayed for God to change my heart, resolved to handle the situation with humility and grace instead of spite and defensiveness (my default responses). I took a deep breath and got ready for the rest of the day. Or so I thought.

But things didn't magically turn around from there. I got overwhelmed by housework. I realized that my big kids had never emptied yesterday's camp bags of dirty towels, bathing suits, etc, and the bags were a soggy mess. I was also trying to get myself and Roo ready for a meeting we have this afternoon with medical students. (More on that in a future post.) Stress and tension began to rule the morning.

And then at breakfast, I was multitasking, unloading the dishwasher in between whipping up bowls of oatmeal and Cheerios. And I turned around and saw that Roo had dumped his oatmeal bowl ALL.OVER.HIMSELF.

And I lost it.

I yelled, I stomped, I may even have growled. I'm not sure. It's a little foggy exactly what happened in that moment. But I wasn't happy, and EVERYONE knew it.

For the rest of the morning the kids walked on eggshells, but it wasn't enough. I yelled at them for not getting ready fast enough, for not picking up their dirty laundry, for losing sunscreen, even for asking to go to the bathroom ("Just GO already! For goodness sake!"). It really wasn't one of my better moments.

And finally, we were in the van, and I think the big kids were as much looking forward to a break from me as they were to spending another day at camp.

I took a deep breath, and asked Lamb if I could borrow her Bible. I opened it to I Corinthians 13, and asked her to read the first 8 verses.

Suppose I speak in the languages of human beings and of angels. If I don’t have love, I am only a loud gong or a noisy cymbal. Suppose I have the gift of prophecy. Suppose I can understand all the secret things of God and know everything about him. And suppose I have enough faith to move mountains. If I don’t have love, I am nothing at all. Suppose I give everything I have to poor people. And suppose I give my body to be burned. If I don’t have love, I get nothing at all.

Love is patient. Love is kind. It does not want what belongs to others. It does not brag. It is not proud. It is not rude. It does not look out for its own interests. It does not easily become angry. It does not keep track of other people’s wrongs.

Love is not happy with evil. But it is full of joy when the truth is spoken. It always protects. It always trusts. It always hopes. It never gives up.

Love never fails.

"Do you know why I asked you to read that?"

After the initial uncomfortable silence, Lamb spoke up, "Because you were kind of grumpy this morning?"

That's an understatement. "Was I patient and kind this morning?"

They shook their heads.

"Did I get angry easily?"

They nodded.

"I didn't do a very good job of showing you love, did I?"

Let's just say they agreed with my assessment. And that's not even mentioning the other things I did in my mind and heart that they didn't directly witness. Pretty much every phrase in that passage hit home.

"What should I do now?"

So I got the answer to my prayer from earlier that morning... I was quite humbled. I told the kids that I needed to ask forgiveness from them and from God. I apologized and asked them all--even Roo--to forgive me for the way I behaved. Then they listened as I prayed and asked God to forgive my words and actions, and most importantly, the attitude of my heart. I admitted that I didn't have the strength to be all of the things that love is, and asked Him to be my strength.

Hopefully as they grow up, it's the second example that I set that they'll remember, not the first.

Thank you, God, for humbling me. Thank you for your forgiveness and your grace. I'll probably need them again later today... and again after that... and again after that... and, well, you get the idea.

A Case of Mistaken Identity

"How old is he?"

I get this question a lot... as do most parents. I constantly have to remind myself that it's just a normal way to start a conversation with a mom. But I still feel like the answer requires an explanation. "He's 3," I begin, but knowing that he doesn't look or act like a typical 3-year-old, I always feel like I should say more. This time, though, I just leave it at that.

It's the 4th of July, and we are in the middle of the KidZone at Fair St. Louis. Monkey is waiting in line for his oh-so-stellar face painting job, and Mr. Fantastic is waiting with him. Lamb, Roo, and I are enjoying some music. For a brief moment, it seemed like a good idea to let Roo out of the stroller, and he is dancing up a storm.

"He's a cutie."

"Thank you. He's a lot of fun."

"Yeah............ it's been six times for me."

OK, now I'm confused. Six times for what? Wait a second... does this guy have SIX kids with Down's? How is that possible? How many are biological? Where are they? Wait... what?

"He's worth it, though."

My mind is reeling. What is he talking about?

"So don't give up, 'cause he sure won't." And then he walked away.

And that's when it hit me. He thought Roo had cancer. This guy has had CANCER six times. He came to encourage me, to give me hope for my little, bald boy.

I didn't know what to do. It seemed odd to chase a stranger down to say, "Thanks, but he doesn't have cancer." I decided that it probably did his heart good to pass along encouragement to someone else. I'm glad we could help him in that.



Fast forward a couple of weeks. Throw in one flooded basement, one long ride home, and we are back in the great state of Ohio (via Colorado), sitting in a mall food court. (Stop hating on my glamorous life.)

A lady at the next table keeps glancing up and smiling at my kids. I notice but don't pay too much attention. Roo is, after all, a total rock star with fans everywhere we go. After a few minutes, she finishes her lunch and leaves.

And then I feel a hand on my shoulder. It's her. "Are these your children?"

"They are," I say proudly. (Proudly because they are all sitting in their chairs, no one is crying, and they are eating like actual human beings, not puppies, as one or more of them is likely to do at any given moment.)

"They are so sweet," she tells me. Yes, they are. For now. But she has something else on her mind. "You... your family... you remind me of my son and daughter-in-law..." She chokes up. I immediately determine that she must mean that they have--or had, since she is teary--a child with Down's, and I smile kindly. She grabs my hand and says, "You guys are heroes." And as she walks quickly away, I realize that she has put money in my palm. Money. About enough to cover the kids' lunches.

And I realize that is has happened again. She thought Roo was showing the signs of chemo. And again, I'm left with the dilemma of the mistaken identity. Do I chase her down and give her the money back? Do I explain that "he's bald because his hair fell out", as my brother would say? I feel like that would be disrespectful to her, to whatever memory brought tears to her eyes as she spoke.

So I keep the money. And I decide that I will use it to pass kindness on to someone else.

It is a strange honor, this glimpse into people's hearts. They are entrusting me with a struggle, a vulnerability in their lives, a chink in their armor, under the premise of a common bond. And though it is built upon a mistake, a bond is in fact forged. I pray for these people, I am humbled by their gestures, and I will treat their stories with dignity.

Thank you for your encouragement, for your willingness to bridge the gap between us and share a piece of your heart. I hope that it brought as much comfort to you as it has to me.