Carry Me

My youngest child is, what we have come to assume must be, the outcome of all of our recessive genetics coming out in one kid. Where his siblings all have dark hair and eyes and a similar Marsden-ish look to them, he is blonde and blue eyed with a look all his own. He has been by far my most active child at the earliest age. He climbed before he crawled, constantly astounding—and terrifying—us with his death-defying feats.

Walter, named after my husband’s friend and mentor, is also my most defiant child. No is his automatic first response to any question. Although I like to point out that I have raised three other children to varying levels of maturity and respect, and that statistically this should prove it’s his fault and not mine, I believe this dear, destructive boy is a gift of humility to me. I have now become that parent with the kid in his underwear at a birthday party because he flatly refuses to wear pants. This would never have been an option for the other kids.

Maybe I’m going soft, maybe I’m worn out, or maybe I’m learning to choose my battles. I’m certainly learning something about grace, about letting go of measuring myself by someone else’s yardstick.

I’m also learning more about the character of God as our Father.

Tuesday morning I woke up as usual, while it was still dark, and stumbled down the hallway to collapse into my favorite chair and start writing. Much, much too soon I hear the undeniable creak of the door of my boys’ room opening. The lid on my emotional-pressure cooker rattles with simmering fury. I wake up early so that I can do this uninterrupted! Don’t they know that?! I can’t wake up earlier than I already do, so to get a couple solid hours of writing time I am banking on them sleeping in until seven. Thus, I have come to cringe at the sound of their door breaking the early silence of my monastic morning.

My older son is the type of kid where it does not matter what time he goes to bed, he will always be an early riser. This has been exacerbated by our recent acquisition of an iPad. Somehow the kids now attempt to set their internal alarm clocks to be the first out of bed so they can claim the coveted pre-school screen time. I have rules against this sort of thing. You know you are not allowed to play iPad until the sun is up, the rule trembling in anticipation on tip of my tongue as the steps on the hardwood floor echo closer.

I am surprised, and not a little disappointed, to find that it is not my older son, but Walter. Though his sweet bed head and sleep-bleary eyes quickly disarm my frustration, I feel a pang of longing for my sacred space as I shift my laptop to accommodate him and his quilt he has dragged from his bed.

Want to watch Mickey Mouse? I coo into the top of his shaggy blonde head, his cheek pressed against my chest. I reach for the remote with one hand, feeling-out the correct buttons by instinct while simultaneously attempting to read a post opened on the laptop screen.

NO!

Of course not.

Breakfast. Me. Now!

Ugh. I try to explain to him that he’s about an hour and a half early for breakfast. To reason that it’s still dark and his siblings are sleeping. I bribe him with movies and iPad and toys and whatever-it-takes.

NO! Breakfast. Me. Noooooooowwwww.

Fine. Clicking down the laptop screen and dropping this morning’s dreams of productivity, I walk to the kitchen to grab the Cheerios.

Carry meeeeee. Walter whines.

No, Buddy. I will not carry you the twenty feet to your messy booster seat at the table in our tiny kitchen. You’ve decided to get up. I will accommodate your unreasonably early breakfast request, but you can get yourself there.

Cereal tip-taps into the plastic bowl, I pour milk and a grab a spoon. Walter is now lying on the floor wailing. Meeeeee. Up. Carryyyyy meeeeee.

Frustration flickers in my chest. I have obeyed the demanding terms of this toddler-terrorist. The least he can do is take himself ten steps to the table.

Isn’t that just like you? Just like us? Speaks a different voice, silently to my heart, yet louder than Walt’s increasingly desperate cries. My mind begins to spin. Me, crying out to God for what I want. Begging Him to get me there. God: providing what I need and knowing He has equipped me to get there. Waiting for me to step toward it. Yes, Lord. I see the parallels.

I came across a Dallas Willard quote years ago that clicked into place and settled in my soul: “Grace is opposed to earning, not effort.” We are called to lean hard into the Lord and to know that ultimately it is He who accomplishes His will in us. We are also called to go and make and do the good work He has set before us. We do this through relationship with Him. He calls us and provides for us. We respond to His provision with obedience. He opens the doors, ultimately He is the door, and we walk through them—to Him.

I sense Walter is wearing himself out, careful not to make eye contact and exacerbate the issue. He calms and drags his quilt to the table, draping it over his chair. He climbs up, I push him in, and he eats. I walk back across the room and fire up my laptop again. I glance to the kitchen, and he catches my eye and smiles his lopsided, mischievous grin.

Lord, you are so good to me.

 

*professional images taken by Wurzbach Fisher. We had a fabulous experience with them and highly recommend them!