By Katharine Grubb
A couple of winters ago, my kid went down an icy hill on his face. I didn't see it. I was a few yards away pushing his little sister in the swing. I just heard him crying. He cries when his carrots touch his peas, so I wasn't overly concerned. Until he came up the hill and I saw him.
The ice scratched his face up so badly, it looked like he got in a fight with an alley cat. Blood was slowly seeping out of the cuts. Bruises were starting to form. My four other children were playing happily, and we had just arrived at the playground about ten minutes before, so I didn't want to pack everyone up just yet. I wiped the blood off his face with someone's ski hat and had him sit on a park bench, trying to comfort him and also trying to call my husband.
If there is ever an area when my own insecurity and ignorance comes through, it's when my children are sick or injured. I need a Super Mom to descend on me and tell me exactly what to do in situations like this. I hate having to guess on my own. I'm never sure I'm making the right choices. If I were a parent of one, trips to the ER might be a lot more frequent. But because I have a crowd to deal with, I have to attempt to meet their needs too.
My husband wasn't answering his phone. All this did was make me more panicky. My little boy's injuries were really only scratches, but the bruises and blood (and his whimpers) made it appear to be much worse. It doesn't help matters that my active imagination (and too many episodes of House) was magnifying these injuries; my conclusion was this: I'm not doing this right, my children are suffering, I am a bad mother.
I told my big kids I would allow them to stay 15 more minutes and then we would go home. The wind was picking up and those of us who were standing around were getting very cold. I tried calling my husband two more times. Still nothing.
I needed my husband to tell me what to do. I needed him to see these injuries (I tried taking pictures with my phone, but Sad Boy wouldn't cooperate and the lighting was terrible) and make a diagnosis. I wanted the responsibility of potentially causing more harm to my children to rest on someone else's shoulders. I needed someone to see that I was an emotional mess and needed comfort too.
Within minutes, my other son fell off his sled and came up the hill crying. His nose and upper lip were scratched up and there was more blood, but his injury didn’t look as bad as his little brother’s. That settled it. We were done. I called everyone over and loaded the van. I couldn't think of anything we needed more desperately than hot chocolate and Motrin. (I could go for a drink, but that would have to wait until after dinner.)
I am such a pansy. I got home and finally spoke to my husband; I felt like an idiot for the fear and anxiety this little adventure caused me. Their injuries were just scratches and bruises, that was all. But yet, there was that lie: the one that says I am bad. I fail. It's my fault. That lie is still there.
Two weeks ago, my husband and I got into an argument. And while the episode was over soon enough, what lingered was the emotional bruising I gave myself. For days, I recounted the precise words that were said by both of us (never taking into account the fact that my husband had forgiven me completely) and concluded that the reason this issue was brought up to begin with was my fault. I am bad. I fail.
I don't know what made me think this - perhaps it was divine mercy - but at some point five days later, I realized that there was a simple solution: Step away from the lie.
My husband loves me. He and I have been married for 13 years. We have five children. If I were truly a failure, if I truly deserved rejection, if it were all my fault, wouldn't he see it too? He is meticulous, analytical and picky. He has strong opinions and never settles for second best. So how is it he picked me to marry unless there was some value here? Let's even go beyond my husband, let's look at someone who loves me deeper.
What does God say about me? I can get a clue about this from what he said about others. In John 8, there was a woman caught in adultery who was guilty, who failed, who was clearly at fault and Jesus said to her, "Neither do I condemn you. Go and sin no more."
I am not used to seeing myself as un-condemned. I'm used to seeing myself as a mess. I'm used to having others point out my faults, then pulling out even more faults and then calling me names for good measure. I'm used to having arguments lead to eerie, malicious silences that might last for days, broken only by a joke. I'm used to every mistake being broadcast to others. I'm used to shame. I'm used to pain. I'm used to despair.
It's difficult to put down these lies, even though they've choked me for years. In my Bible reading, I've found that not only does it please God when I attempt to do so, He gives me strength to do this. He knows how weak I am.
My little boys' injuries are going to heal just fine. We're trying to figure out a funny remark when they're seen at church: You should have seen the other guy!...It was a Siberian tiger in our backyard! It's okay - I took it out. They're going to grow up stronger and more resilient for it. And if they ever play organized sports, they'll probably have far worse (of course, their mother will need sedatives at that point).
And I'll grow up too. I have an amazing healing grace that pours over me. It heals, restores and gives me strength to believe the truth. I am not bad, for I have God's righteousness. I do fail, but I have power in me to succeed. And whatever fault I have, God forgives me.
And that's even more comforting that Motrin, hot chocolate and a good stiff drink.
The ice scratched his face up so badly, it looked like he got in a fight with an alley cat. Blood was slowly seeping out of the cuts. Bruises were starting to form. My four other children were playing happily, and we had just arrived at the playground about ten minutes before, so I didn't want to pack everyone up just yet. I wiped the blood off his face with someone's ski hat and had him sit on a park bench, trying to comfort him and also trying to call my husband.
If there is ever an area when my own insecurity and ignorance comes through, it's when my children are sick or injured. I need a Super Mom to descend on me and tell me exactly what to do in situations like this. I hate having to guess on my own. I'm never sure I'm making the right choices. If I were a parent of one, trips to the ER might be a lot more frequent. But because I have a crowd to deal with, I have to attempt to meet their needs too.
My husband wasn't answering his phone. All this did was make me more panicky. My little boy's injuries were really only scratches, but the bruises and blood (and his whimpers) made it appear to be much worse. It doesn't help matters that my active imagination (and too many episodes of House) was magnifying these injuries; my conclusion was this: I'm not doing this right, my children are suffering, I am a bad mother.
I told my big kids I would allow them to stay 15 more minutes and then we would go home. The wind was picking up and those of us who were standing around were getting very cold. I tried calling my husband two more times. Still nothing.
I needed my husband to tell me what to do. I needed him to see these injuries (I tried taking pictures with my phone, but Sad Boy wouldn't cooperate and the lighting was terrible) and make a diagnosis. I wanted the responsibility of potentially causing more harm to my children to rest on someone else's shoulders. I needed someone to see that I was an emotional mess and needed comfort too.
Within minutes, my other son fell off his sled and came up the hill crying. His nose and upper lip were scratched up and there was more blood, but his injury didn’t look as bad as his little brother’s. That settled it. We were done. I called everyone over and loaded the van. I couldn't think of anything we needed more desperately than hot chocolate and Motrin. (I could go for a drink, but that would have to wait until after dinner.)
I am such a pansy. I got home and finally spoke to my husband; I felt like an idiot for the fear and anxiety this little adventure caused me. Their injuries were just scratches and bruises, that was all. But yet, there was that lie: the one that says I am bad. I fail. It's my fault. That lie is still there.
Two weeks ago, my husband and I got into an argument. And while the episode was over soon enough, what lingered was the emotional bruising I gave myself. For days, I recounted the precise words that were said by both of us (never taking into account the fact that my husband had forgiven me completely) and concluded that the reason this issue was brought up to begin with was my fault. I am bad. I fail.
I don't know what made me think this - perhaps it was divine mercy - but at some point five days later, I realized that there was a simple solution: Step away from the lie.
My husband loves me. He and I have been married for 13 years. We have five children. If I were truly a failure, if I truly deserved rejection, if it were all my fault, wouldn't he see it too? He is meticulous, analytical and picky. He has strong opinions and never settles for second best. So how is it he picked me to marry unless there was some value here? Let's even go beyond my husband, let's look at someone who loves me deeper.
What does God say about me? I can get a clue about this from what he said about others. In John 8, there was a woman caught in adultery who was guilty, who failed, who was clearly at fault and Jesus said to her, "Neither do I condemn you. Go and sin no more."
I am not used to seeing myself as un-condemned. I'm used to seeing myself as a mess. I'm used to having others point out my faults, then pulling out even more faults and then calling me names for good measure. I'm used to having arguments lead to eerie, malicious silences that might last for days, broken only by a joke. I'm used to every mistake being broadcast to others. I'm used to shame. I'm used to pain. I'm used to despair.
It's difficult to put down these lies, even though they've choked me for years. In my Bible reading, I've found that not only does it please God when I attempt to do so, He gives me strength to do this. He knows how weak I am.
My little boys' injuries are going to heal just fine. We're trying to figure out a funny remark when they're seen at church: You should have seen the other guy!...It was a Siberian tiger in our backyard! It's okay - I took it out. They're going to grow up stronger and more resilient for it. And if they ever play organized sports, they'll probably have far worse (of course, their mother will need sedatives at that point).
And I'll grow up too. I have an amazing healing grace that pours over me. It heals, restores and gives me strength to believe the truth. I am not bad, for I have God's righteousness. I do fail, but I have power in me to succeed. And whatever fault I have, God forgives me.
And that's even more comforting that Motrin, hot chocolate and a good stiff drink.
well said and a great reminder!
ReplyDeleteI think we could all take this advice to heart, whether a parent or not. It's so easy to be critical and believe the lies we tell ourselves and other people have told us in the past. It's hard to let go and not just carry that with us.
ReplyDelete