A God Post

This is a God post. That means it's about God. If you are one of my many beloved friends who does not believe in God, then I hope you still enjoy this post, if nothing else for academic interest or entertainment. It's also a good little glimpse into my life, so you can take it for what it is.

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Having children has taught me a lot about God.

The children aren't like God, of course. No: in this metaphor, I'm the one in God's shoes, and my children are in mine.

I'm not saying I'm God. Just hear me out.

Children are little beasts. Lovely, wild monsters who remind me alternately of hamsters one minute and zombies the next. I made them. I mean, I had help, but you know what I mean. They didn't exist, then I did some stuff, then they existed. They had no clothes, no skills, no language. They were little blobs of ecto-goo. I loved them into being, and they didn't have a single good thing to say to me. They cried and complained and demanded every minute of every day and never once said they loved me.

I know. "DUH."

Well, I knew it would be like that, but I didn't KNOW it would be like that. I knew in my head what I did not know yet in my body. I didn't know what it was like to mourn those hours of sleep as I stumbled once more down the hall to feed them, and I didn't know that sinking terror that would grip me when they slept just a little too long, waking them up anyway as I had to - had to - peek in on them to make sure they were still breathing. I didn't know a lot of things.

They demand food. Then, they demand different food. Then, they are wet. Again. They spit up on themselves. Again. They are crying for some indiscernible reason. Again. They are refusing to sleep as their little heads loll to the side and then jerk back up with a cry. Again.

I have met true, unconditional love, and it looks like wiping up huge smatters of poop at 2 in the morning and replacing all the bedding.

This isn't to complain about motherhood. As I've mentioned before, I rather like it.

I just can't help seeing myself in them.

When I put my proverbial hand on the hot stove, I get burned and then it makes sense why I was told not to do that. Until the next time, when I forget and do it again.

I throw temper tantrums and pout in the corner.

I demand and yell, "NO!"

I wail that I don't have this thing, now - forgetting all the good things I have and every gift that's been given to me.

I don't want THIS food. I want different food. I don't want to drink. I don't want to go there.

I. Am. A Little. Kid.

I would be a sorry excuse for a god, and that is what strikes me the most. He deals with all my childishness, and still has more grace, more mercy, more love.

I have lost my temper. I have spoken harshly. I have done things wrong, that I wish I hadn't. I have not been diligent at disciplining and teaching and guiding and loving, but God does all those things for me. He gave me life, he provides for everything for me, and I do things that not only hurt him, but are an affront to him. They grieve him, the way I am grieved when my child denies the things that give him life and keep him safe.

And so I am learning, daily, to remember God when I am weary and ask him to cut me an extra slice of grace.