That's the word that comes to mind when I write in this tiny little web log.
I love my children. I love them dearly. They are my world and there is nothing that I wouldn't do for them.
They are also a little crazy sometimes. Sundays always seem to be our most insane day. They twist and turn and become a pack of whirling dervishes when it is time to get dressed. This happens everyday, but Sunday mornings, when mom is trying to also get dressed and ready for church, and dad is doing the same, as well as prepping some kind of assignment for his church responsibilities, the tension seems to escalate a tad.
And by tension, I mean mom's. And by a tad, I mean a lot.
We eventually manage to get packed and loaded in the car. (Both parents sweating.) Then we go to church for three hours. There are missed naps. Moments of restraint, because they can't understand why they can't crawl and climb over and every pew. One baby always ends up with a kind neighbor. It's amazing how we were outnumbered from day one.
Then for the duration of the meetings, I wrestle, chase, restrain, wipe noses, calm cries and whimpers, toss cheerios at them like little ducks and wonder, why? Why do we even bother to get everyone dressed up and go through this circus EVERY week? It would be a lot easier to stay home. We'll come when they are old enough to sit and be quiet. (So, like when they're 25?)
And then, (and here's where I get a little weepy) I am humbled and calmed. I know why we come. I need Sundays. I need the peace I feel when I am sitting with friends and neighbors singing hymns and sharing stories of faith and love. I need the strength of others around me who are also wrestling and wiping noses, but come anyway. We share a common belief that the Savior knows and understands even the most benign aches a young mother might feel. Whether it's a nagging itch of inadequacy or a booming voice of "you're not good enough." We come to squelch those nasty little lies.
I'm humbled because I seem to forget every week. I seem to forget that I don't have to do everything myself. I don't have to have the cleanest house, prettiest hairstyle, most awesome bedding set, super stylish kids or most darling dress you've ever seen. But that is just fine. I remember on Sundays what's important and where my priorities really need to be. I'm glad, because I need to teach my children these truths.
So we'll continue to get dressed up every week so I can remember.
I need the reminder, because I'm pretty sure children cause short term memory loss.
You made me tear up!(But I still don't miss pacifier tossing in Sac.Mtg.)...
How in the Sam Hill do I sign up to be a follower to your blog so I know when you do a new post?!!! I didn't see a "Follow" thingamajobber to click on...
You know the familiar line in the Frost poem . . ." I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep?" It was a line that kept recurring in my mind when I sat with four young children in church while their dad watched from the stand and then again when many Sundays we went by ourselves because he was at work. (Getting teenagers out of bed Sunday morning never gets easy!) You understand. You get it. Promises are made, and covenants are kept, despite the cost to comfort and how tired you may feel. Because, the cost of not keeping sacred promises is too high a cost to pay. AND, someday you will be the mom responding to her daughter, telling her; "You are a warrior, you are capable and strong and I promise you will never regret the decision to be a family sitting (crawling, running, insert any verb that applies) together in church.
Thanks Mom. I don't know which teenagers you are talking about. (certainly not me!)
:) Worth it.
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