There Were Crayons

Her walls. I noticed it right away. They had art on them. Not the poised framed kind, but rather the raw kind. The kind that asks a mom to be brave. To see what others don't see. 

Masterpieces.

Little fingers. Little hands. Sparkling eyes with heaven gaze. Walls losing white and gaining glory. 

Sometimes Mommy's are the bravest when they trade a yell for a yes.

I walked around her place my whole visit and just smiled. See this Mom used to want clean and "just so", more than child mess and wild joy. It was never that she wasn't a good mom, because she was. She is epic. One of the best Mamas I have ever known. But sometimes as Moms, we feel chased by dishes. Our floors get between our toes and aim to drive us mad. We can write grocery lists in the dust on that shelf over there... And toys pile high like mini Sears Towers. We twitch to clean. Mostly because we can feel like our messes are attacking us. They tell us whether we are keeping up with that good mom bit. They can hinder us feeling in control, and on top of our lives. How us Moms can chase this wind.

But her walls were telling me a different story. A story of love. Pudgy hands with crayons. Love that sees art in the messy, because souls live here. Here in these oopsies. Here in green lines that were a two year olds vision of flowers... Flowers put on walls for her Mama. So her Mama kept it there. These lines of grace gone wild glory. Because she is learning that the kingdom of heaven is laying gentle in hearts like these. Childlike hearts, where genuine, raw faith rests. 

Moms need air. We feel overwhelmed, crowded out, used, forgotten, and even unvalued at times. We work endlessly at correcting, protecting, teaching, and loving. Often we don't get thank you'd. We ache to be seen, dare i say told we are a good mother. Told that all our efforts, sweat, and crying in a pantry days have value. But sometimes it is us that miss the message. It is being told us, but in ways we are too quick to clean up.

Legos scattered are a child feeling free to create. An environment a loving Mama has worked to nurture. 

A messy attempt to make breakfast. Eggs broken and burnt toast roasting. A serenade of wanting to be like their mom.

Toilet water all over the floor, germ laiden brush in four year olds hand. A sign Mama has taught them to clean the needed things. Even the yucky things.

Messy beds made with stuffed animals still inside... An Ode to learning stewardship. 

And the walls. Crayons on them and maybe marker too. Thumb tacks holding up pages upon pages of Child Monet and Picasso giggles. Because sometimes the thank you is in the letting go. In the embracing that the rawest, most organic grace, is found in the imperfections of our long days. In the messed up holy of the glorious undone. 

Isn't Jesus like this? Didn't He sit with the unwanted things, the messy people, the ones society couldn't clean up? 

The voices that were tuned out...He heard.

The skin that was unclean...He touched.

The ones that were soiled...He noticed and called beautiful. 

He drew attention to the ones who chose relationship, and corrected those who chose the bottom line.

He stopped and noticed when his disciples told Him they had a schedule to keep. He chose the person.

He even noticed the dead... And gave back life. Life.

So maybe we have this mothering thing backwards. Maybe we think the wrong things are success.

What if we made Jesus way with people, His way with messes and unsightly things... Our philosophy? That beauty, redemption, hope, dare I say art...lie in these things. These people. These children.

Jesus said to let the children come to Him. He didn't ask us to clean them up first, teach them manners, fluent speech, and good behavior. 

He just said, Let. Them. Come.

Jesus never minded the raw. He never turned His nose up to the tattered. He didn't shun the gross. He didn't leave the undone for the perfect. 

He taught the perfect people lessons by glorifying the weak. 

I bet Jesus would have sat beside your child and colored on the walls too. And when you woulda walked in, they both would turn...eyes full sparkle and smile. What would you say about your wall then?

Perspectives huh? Yeah. Perspectives.

I want mine to be His. His perspective so buried in my mothering that it changes me. Changed my time, my tone, my technique, my ideas. After all, He chose me, and I am hopelessly messy. I know what this love tastes like, and I want my babies to know too.

So to this Mama who led me by example... Examples of crayons and colored walls...of seeing beauty in the undone glory of children... Thank you.

And Mama, you are doing great! Your children are so blessed to have you. You are a wonderful Mother, and I am so proud of you. 

To the rest of us Mamas... Let's notice the raw beauty. The Monet in our days of madness. We are all the broken beautiful.

Circus Lights

I think for those of us "here", it would shock if we speak it. Because most of our worlds have a face. The one everyone around us sees. The person we are seen as. And that person doesn't speak such stark. But what if it's true? What if we are this raw. This undone. This agonized...

We are the always smiling. The planner. The get together event organizer.  The make others laugh and always encourage. We are the silly. The gracious. The I will help with everything. The super mom. The bible study leader. The workout woman. The homeschool poster. The good Christian girl. The pastors wife. The best friend. The worship team chick. The blaa blaa blaa. But what if there is a well... A depth we feel surging and verging to come out...

Maybe, like me, your silly is falling. The always being "the one", is aching. The expectation to be the expected person... The face of everyone's normal... This person wants to pack her bag. Sounds crazy right? But the real things ache. It surges. The real threatens to come out and no one will recognize this face. This person.... 

We are apart of a Circus. We keep our light bulbs changing out. Our wheels spinning to give everyone around us the expected results. The thing is, there is a twist. Though it would be convenient to blame any, no, everyone... It isn't that simple. We have a part in this fairway of lights. We choose to play the role. Moment after moment we step up to that plate. There are some of us who have had unfair or " unright" things layered upon us. Yes. It's true. But in this glorious unwinding God intends, for our perhaps buried but real souls, we see our part too. We rhythmically do what is expected without a break in mind motion or soul ponder. We never ask Jesus these "certain" things, and before we know it, these "responses" mold us into our confused, poised selves. Layer upon complicated layer. 

It's gruesome. Both the realization that we may not be able to keep this up, but also the realization that maybe we shouldn't. That very real possibility hitting you square in the face...

  That this isn't what God has for me. 

We weren't made to please men. We weren't made to tight rope walk our way into love, and tame lions to keep it. Costumes on, costumes off. Day in and day out. Then one day it happens. Lights flashing full blink in our faces... The whole fairway goes death quiet though wheels keep spinning. Like the call to step out has found us. Our weary, worn down, nothing left soul just stands there. Clowns blowing fire in our faces, and ticket salesman shoving tickets into our hands. Here, like this, in this, we hear it.

" Come out..."

So we try our brave. These slow feet grasping with each step, possible freedom. 

Taunting voices revile our decision. Judgers, like jugglers, throw mock in our faces. Roller coaster rides screaming "worthless"  in our ears. 

"This is all you have..."

"This is the only thing your good at..."

"This is what pays the piper..."

"This. Is. Who. You. Are."

Snarls rise and hell fights to keep you in these gates! Lights, smoke, screams, crowds. Pressure... Pressure....pressure....

But that Voice keeps pulling at you. 

Those words. 

" You were made for more than this."

So you walk out. Gate clicks behind you. Everything in you screaming this is wrong. Wrong to follow a voice others aren't. Even others who are supposed to be the same as you. The same? But you can't stay away from this Love. This song you hear in the wind... Floating like hope from somewhere deep.  Because you can't fight to keep what others Indian give any longer. There is this other pulse. A love that doesn't make you pass a test. 

Love...love...love...

Like a pulse you can't shake. An answer to all this agony. To being free from all this shame. Shame that you keep falling from a tight rope that seems to strangle you after every show. If these expectations are right, why are you dying? Why am I ready to pack up the whole of me and run to heal alone up there. Away from eyes that mock and tongues that scoff.

We were never made to please man.

The complication of all this is, what is our part? We have to let the Lord untangle this mangle. And we have to realize we play the role. People's expectations can be abrasive and corrosive... But when we say yes to that tight rope, we are forming our soul around a lie. We are committing to finding value in what suffocates. An endless asking to be wanted. Loved. Seen. Worth it. Cared for....  

We chase a taunt that will never feed us.