 |
| Source: rate-source.com |
I spent the better part of last evening crying out to the Lord--sobbing, praying, groaning--over the heart of my son.
Let me explain.
It had been a great day. We had hosted a play date with some friends we don't get to see too often, enjoyed lunch, baked pumpkin pies and cranberry bread in anticipation of Thanksgiving, and played with neighborhood friends. My husband even returned home early from work, freeing me up to go for a walk and enjoy the beautiful fall foliage. But when I returned home, I felt like I was body-slammed into the sobering realities of parenting a sinner...like me.
I stepped through the front door and my husband was talking with my son in the front room. He looked up to tersely inform me that he had received a text from a neighborhood dad, stating that his daughter had run home upset because our son had thrown dog feces at her and hit her with a tree branch. While I was away for my walk, he had interviewed both our daughters to get the full story, and he'd set up a time to go over to the neighbor's house with our son so he could apologize to her.
At first, I was sooo angry. I raised my voice at my son, threw up my hands, and stormed off to take off my tennis shoes. What was he thinking?! Dog doo-doo?! How could he ruin a perfectly gorgeous fall afternoon with all this nonsense? How could he embarrass us--me--in front of our neighborhood friends? Doesn't he understand that I facilitate a Bible study with the girl's mother? Doesn't he know how much I disdain uber awkward multi-parent/child conferences and apology sessions?
After blowing up and storming off, I got icy. There were few words spoken to him, or anyone for that matter, during all the dicing, chopping, sauteing, and table-setting. My husband left to pick up our daughter from a friend's house. Upon their return, we all sat down to dinner. We did our best at mealtime chit-chat. After the meal, I pushed back from the table and retreated upstairs with a book while my husband started to clean up the dishes (bless that man!).
Curling up under a warm blanket on my bed, I escaped for a bit in the book. I did this until my eyes felt heavy and I was ready to deal.
And then I rolled over from my side onto my back, put the book down, and wept.
My chest heaved, big fat tears ran down my cheeks, and I groaned in wave after wave of sobs. This must have lasted for nearly an hour.
I prayed for my son's heart and I wept over his sin. Oh, how those mothers must feel when their children are incarcerated, peddle drugs, and fall into all kinds of waywardness! I mean, this was throwing dung, small change in the long litany of potential trouble my children could get into!
I prayed for forgiveness for myself and for my own heart--for placing my identity in parenthood (and in my perceived "success" or "failure" in this role) and for my sin of the fear of man and being concerned with what they might think of me...of us. I prayed that God would help me to rightfully place my identity and self-worth smack-dab in the center of Him alone.
I wept over my powerlessness as a parent to change my son's heart. The day's incident had transported me back to a time when my son was only one-month old, when I cradled him in my arms in a pediatric ophthalmologist's office, when his eye was nearly swollen shut from (what we would learn to be) a hemangioma--an abnormal overgrowth of blood vessels--that was pushing his left eye upwards and outwards. I remember feeling so powerless on that day to help and heal my son. All those years ago, I had felt powerless against disease. Now I felt powerless to change his heart.
And, as He always does, God spoke into this time too, as I lay sobbing on my bed before Him. For the first time in my nearly forty years on this planet, I was graced with the opportunity to experience a small glimmer of what He must feel, as my heavenly Father, when I and all His beloved people choose to sin. Oh, how He must have wept when Adam and Eve took those fateful bites of forbidden fruit and hid from Him in the garden! Oh, how He must weep over the ungodliness and sin in my own life, and over the broken fellowship that results between us when I sin!
And just like God, I cannot run away from my son in his sin. Did not God Himself pursue Adam and Eve in the garden, disposing of their forged fig-leaf garments, and slitting the throat of an animal to clothe them? Likewise, I cannot climb into the boxing ring in an opposite corner from my son, fighting against him with balled up fists of anger and hate. Did not God fight for us--not against us--doing battle with the Enemy as He died upon that cross for all our sins? I, too, must choose to fight for my son, not against him, as I do battle on his behalf in intercessory prayer.
And so, when my eyes ran dry and my breathing slowed last night, I made my way into my son's room; he was already tucked in for the night, reading a book. Kneeling at the side of his bed, I drew him close into a hug, ruffled his hair, and kissed his cheek...and I just loved on him. Punishments had already been doled out, and now we were left with what God calls us both to do.
Love on each other. Pray for each other. And do a big ol' belly flop into the grace and mercy of our Lord Jesus Christ.
I walked out of his room, pulled the door closed, leaned against the wall in the hallway, and remembered.
Breathe. Trust. Stand in my powerlessness to save and to change hearts. And yet continue on, showing my children the way, pointing them to the Truth, and loving on them with all my might.
It will come.
One-hundred fold.
No comments