The ministry of momma, in all of its absurdity.

"If you drive your truck through your pee pee, we will have to be all done and go inside."

So that happened this week.

Along with chubby toddler hands finding their way into a toilet bowl... that had yet to be flushed, and various other absurdities.

Can I just take a moment and say that most days, motherhood does not feel like a sacred ministry?

It's hilarious, and disgusting, and draining, and life giving, and absurd... but it does not feel like ministry. 

And I've really been wrestling with that. A lot.

I'm more familiar with ministry that looks like a coffee date with a friend, or a college student on my couch, or the family of a client in my office... squeezing under a crib at 5 months pregnant to retrieve the many tossed pacifiers from our 20-month-old does not fit into the category of "ministry".

And so I've been wondering what it is... this idea in my head of "ministry."

I'm sure there are more robust and accurate descriptions of ministry, but the people who have been used the most in my walk with Christ, are the people who have consistently pointed me to the Lord, joined me in my grief, joined me in my joy and made a home for me in their presence. Those four things. And maybe given me a bowl or two of ice cream or a cup of hot tea from time to time.

Which leads me to the place my heart and head have been hanging out in the quiet moments... (which these days is mostly limited to the extra minutes I linger in the shower)...

How do I point my 20 month old to the Lord?

How do I join him in his grief?

How do I join him in his joy?

How do I make a home for him in my presence?

And that is unfamiliar territory. 

He is not exploring theology or the scandal of the gospel; he is flipping pages in his Veggitales books and learning the words to 'Jesus loves me'.

He is not grieving over relationships and unmet expectations, but his heart breaks into pieces every single morning when daddy kisses him goodbye.

He is not celebrating surviving midterms, or engagements, but he is beaming with pride when he crawls into the tunnel in the play place at Chickfila, after months of anxiously and longingly kneeling beside it, too afraid to venture inside.

He is not a 20-year-old, feeling displaced during a season of transition; he is a 20-month-old, trying to figure out how to be independent and still secure in his relationship with his momma.

Goodness we have so much to learn. Bear with us, buddy.

Oh that Daddy and I would have wisdom, sweetheart, in how to point your tiny soul towards Jesus. That we would join you in your grief when we have to say goodbye, or when you don't get your way, or when you bump your head. That we would celebrate like crazy with you when you accomplish something new and exciting... like managing a whole apple by yourself, or spoonful of yogurt making it to your mouth, or a moment of reckless bravery when you tackle a new slide alone. And that you would feel home when you are near us, that our presence would feel safe and secure and strong and steadfast.

You are so deeply, deeply loved little monkey.

Sara DearComment