Saints and Sinners

On a ride in the Suburban recently, the kids and I had a pretty heavy theological discussion.

"How do we know who goes to heaven and who goes to hell?" one of my deep thinkers asked.

"Well," I started. Like I usually do. A stalling method I think I have perfected but which I know will have a short shelf life.

And Bergen jumps in - "I know that. Good people go to heaven and bad people go to hell."

"Well," I paused again. "That is not exactly true son. Are you a good person?"

He nodded his head yes.

"Do you ever do bad things?" I probed.

Bergen said, "Sometimes."

And we all started a conversation about how good people do bad things. And how bad people do good things.

We talked about how everyone has the capacity to be both bad and good, mean and kind - saint and sinner. Each one of us. Sometimes on the same day, even within the same minute. I have seen it with my own two eyes in a toddler and I have witnessed it in my very own actions.

Saints and sinners.

"So people who will go to heaven just believe that Jesus died for them - right Mommy?" Mosely asked.

"Yes. I believe so."

"I love God," Bergen said softly from his booster seat.

I smiled in the rear view mirror at my boy.

But he had one more question.

"Did God just hear that?"

"Yes, buddy. He did."

Little Me

I recently unearthed a leatherish looking white box from under the recesses of our bed.

I recognized it immediately.

It was my mom's jewelry box. A coffee ring staining the lid. Soft red lining inside.

And I could tell from my kids' reactions that they were eyeing that treasure chest the exact same way I always eyed it as a kid - like some sort of miracle box o' wonders.

So we spent a morning going through its contents. The golden crab pendant from Mom's high school - Hampton Crabs. (Yeah, crabs.) The long strings of pearls. The gaudy brooches that must have belonged to another era - I think I remember photos of people wearing those things, but thankfully I have no recollection of my mother sporting them.

It was fun to see Mosely and London's eyes shining as they gently touched each item and ohhed and ahhed to their heart's content.

I let the girls play dress up for a little while before we carefully stowed the jewelry back in its box.

"Mommy, will you take my picture? I think I look just like a little you," London commented, coming out of the bathroom all ready for a photo shoot.

And if you had the distinct pleasure of knowing Little Lacey, you would probably agree - the kid looks an awfully lot like I did at her age.

A little spooky, actually, such a carbon copy image.

Now I cannot help whether my offspring look physically like me or not. That's really out of my control.

But, for good and for bad, I do know that they often act like me.

And that is just plain overwhelming.

Because my actions are not always worth imitating.

But I guess that's really our calling, isn't it? Our mission. Our purpose.

No, not to create little copycats of us, exactly. But to be the type of people we would want our children to be. To pursue the things we would want our children to pursue.

To be worthy of imitation.

Really, this isn't just true for our kids only, is it?

Maybe it's true for anyone who watches us.

To be worthy of imitation.

Not that anyone has to imitate us.

But that if they did, it would be okay. It would be good, in fact.

Because we are all imitating someone. Reflecting someone.

And at this house, I know my children are watching.

They are studying me.

And it's humbling and terrifying and difficult and incredible to live under such close scrutiny at all times.

So I know this.

I had better be imitating someone. Someone better than myself.

Because while my actions are not usually worth imitating, His always are.

Constant

Really, this post is about chaos.

And I think the photo demonstrates that fairly well.

And it's funny.

And Leanne said she will only read my posts if they are accompanied by a photo.

Our house is lived in.

It's comfortable.

And we like that.

But comfortable can ooze into cluttered faster than Bergen can ride a bike down a hill. And cluttered can morph into chaos with a speed faster than Riley's fingers can text.

Last weekend Kevin and I looked around our home.

And it looked like chaos had settled in.

I was tired of messy children's rooms where a child could not play with any particular item if they desired because there were simply too many toys strewn across the floor. Clean laundry was flowing out of the basket and beginning to be contaminated by dirty laundry piled near it.

I wanted a change.

So did Kevin.

And we had a yard sale quickly approaching.

It was the Perfect Storm.

So we organized. Cleaned every nook and cranny. Bagged up all but four stuffed animals per kid. (Veggie Tales, Curious George and Eagle are the only ones who have made the current cut.) We swept. Sorted clothing. Stashed the doll house in the closet for a rainy day. Sold the train table on craigslist. Threw away only what even GoodWill would refuse.

It was hard work.

But rewarding.

And the house looked good. Shiny. Clean. Simplified. Clutter-free. You could walk. You could run. Your socks didn't get dirty just walking around the kitchen. Your clothing choices were infinite because every article of clothing was cleaned and neatly folded or hung in the closet.

It was beautiful.

And heartbreakingly short-lived.

It still looks pretty good. It does.

But not pristine.

We had to eat. We had to get dressed. We had to play. We had to live.

One busy weekend later and things are a little misplaced again.

Laundry is dirty. (Why did man ever have to sin in the garden? Nakedness is so much easier to maintain.)

Dishes are in the sink.

Larry and Junior and George are flopped on the floor.

Disorder is always waiting around the corner.

It is always waiting.

And it takes steady, concentrated effort to maintain order.

To push back chaos.

This is true at our house.

And in our relationships.

With our friends. Our spouse. Our children. God.

Steady, concentrated effort to maintain order.

To maintain relationship.

Harmony.

Peace.

And how quickly it falls apart if we stop.

Even for a weekend.

Are You Sure?

I find myself always asking,

(repetitively, yes)

How can I best serve God?

(Right now. In this life. In the present.)

And the answer seems to always be given

(repetitively, yes)

softly in my mind,

boldly in my life.


By serving the people living at this house.

No, no, no.

Can't I do something glamorous?
Something big?
Exciting?
Cool?
Highly visible?
Dramatic?

God,
Don't you need a writer for a really popular magazine?
Do you need me to work at a theatre like Flat Rock Playhouse?
Do you want me to sell all of my possessions and travel across the country with my family in an RV for you?
Do you want me to sequester myself away in some private hideaway and write the next great novel?

Oh.

You
want
me
to stay
here?

To wash these clothes?
To wipe so many sticky hands?
To kiss golden heads when they cry?
To stay up late holding inconsolable babies?

To
serve
the
small
humans
who
may
(or may not)
ever say
thank you.

Are you sure?

Oh.

I am supposed to be busy
about the business
of
straightening
the
arrows
you gently placed
in
our
quiver?

Oh.

But . . . .
No one notices.
The hours are really long.
The salary is sub-standard.
The benefits
are
not entirely
tangible.

And
it's
hard.

Really hard.

Oh.