Skipping stones eventually sink.

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After we’d had five children in ten years, I felt stretched to the limit and had gradually morphed into a bad mother. I saw myself like a skipping stone nicking the surface of parenting, in, out, in, out, giving each child only tiny bits of time and attention. If things didn’t change, I knew I’d end up like the stone: sunk.

One day when the kids were 12, 10, 8, 4 and 3, we’d had a compilation of mini-crises (i.e. spilled juice, a cut finger, a broken toy, lots of teasing), and I was frayed at the edges. If I heard the word “mommy” even one more time, I’d thought I’d crack.

Then, as I tried to make dinner, the four year old began peppering me with new questions, and not just any questions. These I had to think about. He not only called me “mommy” with each question but decided to begin and end with it.

  • Mommy, why does Papa ride the train, Mommy?
  • Mommy, why doesn’t Papa drive the train, Mommy?
  • Mommy, when can I get on the train, Mommy?
  • Mommy, where should we go on the train, Mommy?

His questions came from a bottomless well of healthy childhood curiosity, and on a non-stressed day, dialoging would have been fun. That day, though, I couldn’t handle it.

By his tenth question (or so), the three year old joined in:

  • Mommy, can I have a cookie, Mommy?
  • Mommy, can I have a drink, Mommy?

Like a skipping stone on its last landing, I whirled around to face them and said, in an angry voice, “Stop calling me Mommy! And don’t ever call me Mommy again!”

Even as the words zipped through the air, I knew they were idiotic and hurtful. Instantly God reminded me of a conversation 12 years earlier with my firstborn: “C’mon, honey. Say Mommy. Mommy. You can do it! Mom – my.”

And suddenly I felt terrible. These little boys loved me with all-out adoration, everything about me. They wanted to be with me, talk to me, listen to me, hug me… and say my name. I was their mommy, the person above all others.

In relation to parenting, I often think with amazement that I’m a child of God. He and I have a precious Father-daughter relationship, and he never gets tired of hearing me say his name.

Instead he responds, “Come to me. Any time. I’m here for you. Always. I love you.”

And best of all he adds, “Now that you’re my child, you can call me Abba.”

That’s the equivalent of Daddy. He tells me I’m as much his child as Jesus, and since Jesus calls him Abba, I can, too. This privilege makes me weep, because I know I don’t deserve it. Yet he says, “That’s exactly how I see you, Margaret, as my daughter.”

On that difficult day with my children, I dropped to my kitchen floor (just like a sinking stone) and gathered my two little boys into my lap, hoping to undo the damage. But I wonder…

“Because we are his children, God has sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts, prompting us to call out, ‘Abba, Father’.” (Galatians 4:6)

Remembering Our Anniversary

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Although Nate and I would have been married 41 years today, I’ve decided to officially stop counting. He isn’t here, and our real number froze just short of 40. Although I enjoyed paging through our wedding photo album today, I’m wearing his wedding band on a chain around my neck, a reminder of his absence. Even so, it wasn’t a difficult day.

To the contrary, it was a day of boundless energy like I haven’t experienced in months. The hours ran out long before my pep, and a lengthy list of chores-in-waiting got done: organizing the basement, doing laundry, baking, washing windows, cleaning house, taking down the screens, writing letters, pruning the house plants and paying the bills. A year ago I would have looked at that list and set it aside with a deep sigh, unable to even get started. And because of the difference between then and now, I know my heart is healing.

One of the reasons for this measurable progress is, I believe, the kindness of friends. Today’s mail had a handful of greeting cards and letters in it, written with love as others remembered our anniversary. Most of them promised prayer for me today. Such thoughtfulness moves me deeply and is probably the reason everything turned out well.

During a call from Linnea this morning, we chatted about wedding anniversaries. The date is important to only two people, unlike birthdays, graduations or promotions. An anniversary is a party-for-two, a small event with great significance. But because Nate is gone, my annual celebration has to stop.

Yesterday I pointed out to Birgitta where her father and I spent our short but delightful honeymoon: at the Drake Hotel in downtown Chicago. Nate was in law school, and I was teaching. Four days was all the time-off we could get, and we made the most of it. Happy honeymoon memories flooded my mind today, and I even caught myself humming.

No marriage is without its rough places, though, and we had our share. The fact that we made it 40 years is a testimony to God’s involvement in the relationship. After all, marriage was his idea, and as a bride and groom recite their vows, he’s there, too. Because he wants couples to succeed, he’s available for counsel and encouragement all along the way and doesn’t have to be asked twice. Nate and I called out for rescue several times in our years together, and God always restored our relationship.

Interestingly, a marriage often becomes stronger after surviving a period of struggle. It’s as if the marriage muscle gets built up through the exercise of hanging-on-no-matter-what. None of us can predict what life will throw at our marriages, but one thing is sure: God is rooting for us through all of it. He’s the third member of every union, and if we invite him to the anniversary celebration, he’ll always be willing to change that party-for-two to a party-for-three.

“A person standing alone can be attacked and defeated, but two can stand back-to-back and conquer. Three are even better, for a triple-braided cord is not easily broken.” (Ecclesiastes 4:12)

Help for Beggars

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We got an early start today, leaving Michigan well before sunrise. After dropping Nelson at O’Hare, Birgitta, Jack and I set off on a day of adventure, starting with a big Chicago breakfast. We worshiped at Moody Church, then headed for “The Magnificent Mile,” joining in with the shopper’s parade along beautiful Michigan Avenue.

As we walked, we were both disturbed to see beggars on every corner. Some were shaking cups of coins, calling to passers-by, while others barely peeked out from beneath their hoods or behind their signs. We saw men and women, young and old, and all were begging for money.

Literally hundreds of shoppers streamed past, ignoring the beggars and their pleas for help. As Birgitta and I shared a McDonald’s lunch, we tried to answer the many questions prompted by the presence of so many beggars. Were they hungry as their signs said? When did they last eat? Were they homeless? Where did they last sleep? Did they have families? How did they come to this?

As we talked, new questions arose. Would it be an insult to put only coins into their cups? And if we put money in one, shouldn’t we put it in all? Should we carry a roll of bills for this purpose? Would McDonald’s gift cards be better? Or maybe a scarf? A hat? Would a smile without a practical gift seem cavalier?

My dad served on the board of Pacific Garden Mission for several decades, believing in their work with the poor. He used to keep PGM business cards in his pocket for the homeless, telling them if they walked over to the mission, they’d receive a meal, a clean bed and whatever clothing they needed. Were these cards a blessing to the recipient or a disappointment?

After leaving Birgitta at Union Station to travel with hundreds of other students back to Iowa, I drove home to Michigan, bothered by what we’d seen today. I felt guilty for not having given of myself or my money. Although I had cards for “GettingThroughThis” in my pocket, they seemed inadequate for such severe problems.

I decided to pray about these struggling souls, asking God what to think (or do) about them. His answer came quickly: “Take your cue from Jesus. What did he do about beggars?”

When I got home, I checked, and the one thing Jesus always did was help. But he inevitably connected it to faith in himself as God’s Son. He linked his practical gifts (such as healing) to the Gospel’s truth.

I thought back to Dad’s method of helping beggars, giving them the PGM cards. Because the mission offered worship services and presented the Gospel before meals, he had it right. His card was a ticket to both practical help and the truth of Jesus’ eternal healing.

So, what should Birgitta and I have done today? Gifts of money, hamburgers or hats would have been OK but incomplete. If we’re to follow Jesus’ example, a PGM card, a GettingThroughThis.com card or another piece of Scripture coupled with money, hamburgers or hats would have been much better.

Tangible gifts do help, but only temporarily. The powerful help of the Gospel goes on forever.

“Though [Jesus Christ] was rich, yet for your sake he became poor, so that you by his poverty might become rich.” (2 Corinthians 8:9b)