Kids
I love kids. Not in the perfunctory response to seeing 32 pictures of her sleeping on your Instagram of, “Aw, she’s so cute!” But in the slightly creepy, if you invite me to a party at your house, you will find me chasing the gummy bear invaders in the backyard with bubble wrap and your three-year-old. I’ve been this way as long as I can remember; in fact, my first job out of college was teaching the three-year old class at a private preschool.
The favorite part of my day was always when they would come up and ask me to be a part of their playtime. "Ms. Kelcey, come eat some of these waffles I made!" "Help me build the rocket ship that will take the cowboys to space!" "Look at this weird bug I found!" These times trumped the demands of their parents to be able to read when they left my room, the hours of toilet training, the days I spent sick from their germs. I think it was their raw curiosity and the way those little eyes lit up with a discovery and unabashedly trusted what you said. Faith of a child.
But this love goes back even before the preschoolers--perhaps Freud would say I had a fixation on being the older child, the protector of my sisters. Perhaps Clifton would say my strengths of developer, individualization, and empathy foster a combination that draws me to be around children. Perhaps I just really hate the small talk and consistent underlying pressure to be better, to compare to the other, that needles its way into conversations with people over the age of eight. Which makes my current pain hit when I least expect like a ninja under the cover of a moonless night. The deep cut of seeming rejection of the core of who I am, what I'm intrinsically good at--being with kids.
When it seems like the gifts and deep desires of my heart involve pouring Christ's love into children, how unfair is it that I am unable to bring my own into the world? But Jesus and grace are not about fairness.
My best friend of 20 years recently made my heart skip a beat in my derisive complaining of the journey I've been traveling the past two years asking, "What are you really worshiping, Kelcey? Is motherhood becoming an idol to you? Remember the One who deserves all and only our attention and worship." I honestly did not know how to respond to her, and the Holy Spirit's, conviction that this idea of being a mother has become something I worship, something I put my hope and faith in.
I wish I could say that my months don't revolve around that two-week waiting period. I wish I could say I spent time putting my faith and resolve in the Creator of all life instead of researching alternative treatments, reading blogs to see if my symptoms were early signs of pregnancy. I wish I didn't go through the feelings excitement, jealousy and guilt in a matter of 20 seconds when hearing yet another friend or cousin or classmate has a little one growing inside her. But I can't. I have taken my eyes and worship from the One who gives new life and placed it on my inability to create my own new life. My pride. No, it’s not fair that the drug addict who goes to the abortion clinic has a choice to keep her baby or not. No, it’s not fair that the 17-year-old has a second baby that her mom has to take care of, repeating the cycle of teen motherhood. No, it’s not fair that you get to choose to maintain your current standard of living or stop birth control to expand your family. It’s not fair that some of the deepest desires of my heart will not come true how I’ve dreamed and hoped and planned.
But neither is grace.
It’s not fair that Jesus took on the sin of the world and willingly laid down his life for us. Fair doesn’t allow murders a second chance. Fair doesn’t let humanity back into the folds of a reconciling relationship with the perfect, Holy Father. Fair has no place in the Kingdom of God. Hallelujah, God operates in the scandalous economy where grace isn’t fair.
My reorienting song and source verses in these dark spaces of my life has become "Great is Thy Faithfulness" and Lamentations 3:17-24:
It is not part of “God's plan” for my body to not support a child. "Just relaxing" will not magically open my uterus. Adopting a child will not somehow open the door to pregnancy. Timing and drugs and in-vitro fertilization may never work. But then again, they might. I may live with "unexplained infertility" the rest of my life. Or I may get pregnant next week. And the grief may never fully disappear. No matter how kids become part of my life. Life just isn't fair. But, neither is the Kingdom of grace. I can't orient my purpose around when I'll get to be the obnoxious woman with an Instagram full of every time my kid pooped. My life, instead, orients around the One whose great love never fails, whose compassions renew every morning. In Him I wait and hope and place my trust. Regardless of if that involves having little Kelcey’s running around chasing gummy bears or not. Because, somehow, all of this becomes secondary when my orientation, my purpose, is no longer around things of this world, but around the true Creator of all life. "Strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow, blessings all mine, with ten thousand besides!"
The favorite part of my day was always when they would come up and ask me to be a part of their playtime. "Ms. Kelcey, come eat some of these waffles I made!" "Help me build the rocket ship that will take the cowboys to space!" "Look at this weird bug I found!" These times trumped the demands of their parents to be able to read when they left my room, the hours of toilet training, the days I spent sick from their germs. I think it was their raw curiosity and the way those little eyes lit up with a discovery and unabashedly trusted what you said. Faith of a child.
But this love goes back even before the preschoolers--perhaps Freud would say I had a fixation on being the older child, the protector of my sisters. Perhaps Clifton would say my strengths of developer, individualization, and empathy foster a combination that draws me to be around children. Perhaps I just really hate the small talk and consistent underlying pressure to be better, to compare to the other, that needles its way into conversations with people over the age of eight. Which makes my current pain hit when I least expect like a ninja under the cover of a moonless night. The deep cut of seeming rejection of the core of who I am, what I'm intrinsically good at--being with kids.
When it seems like the gifts and deep desires of my heart involve pouring Christ's love into children, how unfair is it that I am unable to bring my own into the world? But Jesus and grace are not about fairness.
My best friend of 20 years recently made my heart skip a beat in my derisive complaining of the journey I've been traveling the past two years asking, "What are you really worshiping, Kelcey? Is motherhood becoming an idol to you? Remember the One who deserves all and only our attention and worship." I honestly did not know how to respond to her, and the Holy Spirit's, conviction that this idea of being a mother has become something I worship, something I put my hope and faith in.
I wish I could say that my months don't revolve around that two-week waiting period. I wish I could say I spent time putting my faith and resolve in the Creator of all life instead of researching alternative treatments, reading blogs to see if my symptoms were early signs of pregnancy. I wish I didn't go through the feelings excitement, jealousy and guilt in a matter of 20 seconds when hearing yet another friend or cousin or classmate has a little one growing inside her. But I can't. I have taken my eyes and worship from the One who gives new life and placed it on my inability to create my own new life. My pride. No, it’s not fair that the drug addict who goes to the abortion clinic has a choice to keep her baby or not. No, it’s not fair that the 17-year-old has a second baby that her mom has to take care of, repeating the cycle of teen motherhood. No, it’s not fair that you get to choose to maintain your current standard of living or stop birth control to expand your family. It’s not fair that some of the deepest desires of my heart will not come true how I’ve dreamed and hoped and planned.
But neither is grace.
It’s not fair that Jesus took on the sin of the world and willingly laid down his life for us. Fair doesn’t allow murders a second chance. Fair doesn’t let humanity back into the folds of a reconciling relationship with the perfect, Holy Father. Fair has no place in the Kingdom of God. Hallelujah, God operates in the scandalous economy where grace isn’t fair.
My reorienting song and source verses in these dark spaces of my life has become "Great is Thy Faithfulness" and Lamentations 3:17-24:
I have been deprived of peace; I have forgotten what prosperity is. So I say, ‘My splendor is gone and all that I had hoped from the Lord.’ I remember my affliction and my wandering, the bitterness and the gall. I well remember them, and my soul is downcast within me. Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope: Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. I say to myself, “The Lord is my portion; therefore I will wait for him.” (Emphasis mine)Motherhood will never look like the traditional route for our family. But "great is Thy faithfulness!" We may never get to take adorable maternity pictures or commiserate about stretch marks. But, "morning by morning, new mercies I see." I hope that we have the honor of explaining why being adopted into the family of God holds so much more meaning to our kids. Regardless, "all I have needed, thy hand hath provided." I may learn how to cherish the title of “world's greatest aunt” and "godmother" instead of "Mom." But "great is Thy faithfulness Lord unto me."
It is not part of “God's plan” for my body to not support a child. "Just relaxing" will not magically open my uterus. Adopting a child will not somehow open the door to pregnancy. Timing and drugs and in-vitro fertilization may never work. But then again, they might. I may live with "unexplained infertility" the rest of my life. Or I may get pregnant next week. And the grief may never fully disappear. No matter how kids become part of my life. Life just isn't fair. But, neither is the Kingdom of grace. I can't orient my purpose around when I'll get to be the obnoxious woman with an Instagram full of every time my kid pooped. My life, instead, orients around the One whose great love never fails, whose compassions renew every morning. In Him I wait and hope and place my trust. Regardless of if that involves having little Kelcey’s running around chasing gummy bears or not. Because, somehow, all of this becomes secondary when my orientation, my purpose, is no longer around things of this world, but around the true Creator of all life. "Strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow, blessings all mine, with ten thousand besides!"
Comments
Post a Comment