grace hour

We're falling into somewhat of a routine now that school is back in full swing; backpacks hang on hooks in the hall, lunches are composed at ungodly hours in the dark of a half-caffeinated morning, homework completed and checked under the watchful eye of a mom who knows the ultimate goal is to run back outside for more playtime.  And earlier bedtimes.  Bless.

The gift of sleep is one greedily consumed by my children at 6 a.m.; which makes for grunty, stretchy mornings where the conveyor belt of 'dress, eat, brush, pack, shoes, hug dad, car' is the mechanism for which I rely upon in order to have our stereotypical suburbanite Suburban rolling down the driveway at oh-seven hundred.

Last year, the dance of school children out the door on time did not factor in one adorably lovable, yet highly frustrating caveat.  Last year, it did not matter if my little sensory sweetie was fully dressed and ready to go, or freshly out of bed sporting a super snarled coif and precariously filled pull-up.  I could just pop her in the car seat alongside her obligatory five stuffed accouterments and away we'd go; the promise of an entire extra hour to lazily get her ready for kinder prep.

Oh, to have that hour.

The hour that included easing into choosing clothes that felt 'right' that day, food that was crunchy or smooth or dry enough, hair that was slowly brushed over the course of many minutes and with a multitude of distractions from the apparent pain the brush was causing.  The hour that allowed a trial run of the shoes that would go 'just right' with the outfit and were comfy enough {not to mention the battle of the irksome sock seam that NEVER seemed to cooperate}.  The hour that included not just one, but many, many hugs; hugs to calm and console and create peace.

But this year.  

One less hour, all the same struggles.  The feels and textures and pressure and inside turmoil that turn into outward aggression and anger and sadness and confusion.  Compounding the challenge is the need to be mom-in-triplicate and ensure my older two still get attention and affection and needs met.  All while operating on a less-than-adequate dose of caffeine.  Let's just say, we have driven to school with more than one of us in sniffles on more than one occasion {and it's just week 2}.

After a series of exceptionally challenging days, and a morning ride to school that was 98% stalemate; 2% expressions of love, I find myself in tears yet again.

Why can't I just take it easy?  Be gentle with her, she is soft and tender and doesn't always know how to express what she's feeling or how this big, outside world is affecting her vulnerable, sensitive insides.  Speak softly and with kindheartedness; for she will respond much more easily when wrapped in obvious love.  

And it struck me.  Who am I talking about?  My daughter, or myself?  

When they placed that tiny, spindly little body on mine right after she was born, my heart skipped a beat or two; just as it had done with my first and second little miracles.  I was looking into the face of God, as He revealed himself on earth.  A baby.  A human being with all the pain and struggle and feelings and joys that come along with living on this planet and with other human beings.

Only this human became mine for the raising.  This human looks to me to learn and understand what it means to love, to grieve, to be a friend, to live out the life our Creator has given us.  The trouble is, I am still trying to figure out those things myself.  And, often times, I fail miserably.  

Take the past two weeks of school, for instance.  I keep telling myself I will not raise my voice or yell or scream or shout or spank her little bottom when she whines and cries and struggles to person.  I tell myself I will be loving and understanding.  I will calmly speak, carefully explain, and eagerly try to decipher what potentially could be throwing her off course.  

But then that sound pierces the air.  And my current love is masked by sudden irritation because there is, as far as I'm concerned, absolutely NO reason under the sun for her to be squawking like a deranged parakeet because I have asked her to choose between a bagel or a banana.  Two items she had suggested to me the night before as we discussed what our morning routine would look like, and as we prayed for peace and patience and words to describe how we were feeling.

So we boldly defy the prayers that escaped our lips just hours before; voices become louder and snippier, clipping the morning air with a harshness that should not be associated with children and tender souls and little hearts attempting to absorb truth about life and mold a foundation upon which to grow and thrive.  We have a standoff.  Anger.  Threats.  Consequences.  Tears.  Sniffles.  Guilt.  Shame.

What I really want to do; what I really should do is take that squirming, thrashy, flailing, croaking girl and wrap her in my arms.  Envelop her in safety and reassurance and easement.  Advocate for her feelings that she just can't seem to verbalize in a calm and rational tone.   Allow her to feel loved and accepted for the tiny person that she is; the tiny person trying desperately to disentangle the web of her brain; the tiny person who is looking for a way to break into life as an independent, brave, confident, kind person, with valid and true feelings.  What I should do is give her grace.

What I really should be doing is looking in a mirror.  Because ultimately, I am.  

My little human, this tiny person whom God entrusted to me, is *so* my mirror.  And in more than just the extra long-legged, chocolate-eyed, button-nosed genetic way.  In the heart way.  The soul way.  The extra-feeling-y way.  The struggle with verbalizing what is truly going on.  The pain of feeling 'off' and 'out' and 'odd' when the whole rest of the world seems to be grooving along, getting it.  

Having lived long enough, I know, of course, that those people who all seem to be getting it are in fact more than likely feeling closer to my end of the spectrum; flailing and thrashy, treading water that just keeps swirling in an unhealthy current.

But what I want, what I really, really want is for that facade to be dropped.  For the curtain to fall and Oz to be revealed.  I want my sweet girl, {me!} to be know that it's entirely okay, and, in fact, normal for us to feel this off and odd feeling.  When we struggle to express our souls, it's not necessarily because we have a lack of words; but a lack of freedom, a lack of acceptance.  A lack of grace.

Somewhere along the line, it has become 'not okay' to have these deep and big and inexplicable feelings.  It's become inappropriate to sit down and say, "I need help.  And not just with my homework or my job or my car or getting my kid's swing set built in the backyard.  But real, actual, help.  I need to feel safe to share my fears and worries.  I need to feel like the fact that I have all this stuff swirling around inside my soul is okay.  Understood.  Accepted.  Worthy."  

I need my girl to grow up knowing that her struggles aren't really that.  They're not bad or shameful or in need of being hidden.  But they're special.  Unique.  Transforming.  They're the exclusive hurdles that God has blessed her with; not to make it harder, but to give her a place where she can not just gracefully leap, but beautifully thrive.  Where she can share her soul and not be afraid.  Where she can leap with joy and should she stumble; feel brave and confident enough to know that regardless of how the world responds and what they may think or do or say; that she is just fine.  More than fine.  She is perfect.  She is His.

I want my tiny human; my mini-me; my mirror into my past, present, future, and purpose to feel that gentleness.  To hear that soft, kindhearted voice that lets her{me} know it's okay, it's okay, it's okay.  The shush and lull of a quiet but strong embrace in obvious love that gives reassurance not rushing, empathy not anger, understanding not frustration, and comfort not shame.  The world will respond.  They will judge and fix and assume and shame and guilt and yell and squawk and scream and shout.  They will hold it against you, hold it over your head, hurl it in your direction in angry, ugly, accusatory, comparative tones that make you feel small and inadequate and less than and not enough.  

The world is going to rebel.  They're going to be squirmy and thrashy and flailing because they can't handle the real.  The truth.  The imperfection that is really total perfection of a human being.  They're going to withhold grace because it feels wrong and weird and crazy to give unmerited favor to an imperfect, messy, broken person.  A person who messes up and boldly defies and reacts rather than responds.  Yes.  It seems crazy.  And maybe it is crazy.  It isn't something meant for our understanding; grasping the why of this amazing grace.  There is only One who understands that why.  Maybe one day we'll learn.  Maybe one day we'll look upon this earth and see--really, truly see.  

"Ohh," we'll say.  "now I get it.  Now I see."  We'll see those moments; those missed opportunities; those shattered, sad, defeated souls, pocked with the scars of unforgiveness.  And we'll sigh.  We'll grasp our chests and pray for peace.  Pray for understanding.  Pray for that soul to feel okay.  We'll say grace.  

Why do we wait?  Why do we withhold blessing those with whom we share life and love and earth?  Why do we hoard our grace; only to sprinkle it out in small amounts, carefully and methodically over the people and situations that we deem 'most worthy'?  Why do we not take that time, sit down with that person, know them.  Hear them.  Invest in them.  Make it safe for them to share their vulnerable, sensitive insides; not just because you want to fix or feel better about yourself or become a gossip reporter; but because you can share yours, too.  And it can be good.  More than good.  It can be beautiful.  It can be freeing.  All it takes is tenderness and time.

I want to take that hour.