“Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up. (Galatians 6:9).
I had to call him. Had to hold down speed dial #7 just so I could hear his voice. A voice I have been listening to for almost nineteen years now. A voice I call son. A first born named Nick.
I did not call him out of worry or out of loneliness for his presence. No, I called him because I needed a reminder. A reminder of the eventual reality that children will, in fact, emerge from their toddled state of neediness to one day embrace upon a walk of independence. It is a walk he has embraced well…with grace and with a level of maturity I never thought possible all those years ago. All those almost 6,935 days ago.
I remember the admonishment of others back then.
Cherish these moments. They’ll be gone before you know it.
Really? I suppose in the broad brushstrokes of a life lived, indeed those years seem minimal. But while we were living them…I felt every one of them. Every sleepless night…every temper tantrum. Every strong willed expression that challenged my mothering patience. Every program. Every load of laundry. Every first day of school. Every soccer and basketball game. Every report card. Every milestone. Every question. Every tear. Every bedside chat. Every joy. Simply…everything.
Nick has been with me for almost half of my life, and in many ways we have grown up alongside one another. There have been good seasons and seasons that have pushed me to the outer edges of my understanding. Through it all, faith has been my guide, and what has emerged is a bond of sacred proportion.
A good harvest at a proper time. A time like today, when I need to know that what I am doing on a daily basis really does matter. That the seeds I am currently sowing will one day bloom into a blossom called adulthood. That the motherhood mantle that boasts my shoulders is, in fact, one of the highest privileges I will ever wear.
And so I called, and I received the verbal confirmation that my faithful sowing and good training has yielded and will one day again, yield a gracious and Godly return.
It is a guiding hope for me, as I continue to shepherd and shape the minds of three others that remain under my roof. I have not always been thankful for the job, but I have always been mindful of the sacred responsibility.
Parenting has been hard for me. I am not certain as to the exact reason why, but I am pretty sure it roots back to my bent toward selfishness. Selfless living has not been my portion. Instead, I am prone to my needs…my wants…my desires. So when routine breaks (like Spring break), and my mothering skills are put to the test, I cry out to God for help. For more of him to come and to replace the more of me. For more of a “First Corinthians Chapter Thirteen” kind of agapao loving that reaches beyond self to put others ahead of self.
I deeply admire those who mirror such a love for others, especially for their children. Who parent with ease and receive its calling as the most treasured one they will ever know. I wonder if they, too, have ever felt the pull between selfish living and selfless loving. I imagine that they have, but somehow they have come to a quicker conclusion in the matter. A conclusion that hosts a peaceful rest, full of a faithful trust for the parenting process.
I want to be that parent. I want to come to some quicker conclusions of trust…of believing that God has shaped me with the sacred capacity for the shaping of my children. That the seeds I am sowing, whether in tears or in joy, will one day reap a harvest of good growth and seasoned maturity.
Perhaps that is why I picked up the phone today and speed dialed #7. He is my kindling hope. What I couldn’t have imagined 6,935 days ago, I now witness in full bloom. Dirty diapers and temper tantrums could not hold him…could not keep him from becoming the man of God I now see emerging. This season…this seeing it all come to pass…is by far the greatest joy I have known as a mother.
So when I get overwhelmed with daily parenting—with spelling lists, and sippy cups, and the ever constant “Mommy…mommy, mommy, mommy,”—I look to my first born and remember that all of my answers to my little ones’ neediness will one day emerge into a season of glorious remembrance and abiding joy. I can cherish these moments now, because I know that there is a greater moment yet to come.
A moment of reaping, when my hard years of parenting yield a harvest of young adult men and one woman who still answer the phone calls from their mother to remind her that all is well. All is good. And that all my weary doing has been worth the return. And so, this day, I pray…
Father, keep me doing. In tears and in joy, keep my feet to the path of sacred parenting. It’s not always been easy, but it’s always been right. It’s been good because you give good gifts, Father. Forgive me when I consider my children anything less than your divine abundance and grace in my life. Seed in me a 1 Corinthians 13 kind of love. Grow me toward a life of selfless loving. And when I am weary in my good doing, bring me to a quicker conclusion of trust…a peaceful rest, that reminds me of the harvest yet to come. Amen.
OK…time to weigh in with your thoughts. Where have you struggled in your weary doing? What have you learned along the way? Teach me, friends, for my heart and my will is ripe for the learning.