My Girls, My Gifts

The house is quiet.  Afternoon.  Rest.  I find my usual place, in the kitchen with a cup of coffee.  I stare out at the vast and beautiful sunny skyline; being on the seventh floor certainly has its perks.  As I look out, I see almost a dozen pieces of art exhibited on the windowsill and manufactured by my homegrown artists -- Jane, Claire and Rory.  Paint, glitter, jewels, and foam stickers…  Truly, I have a breathtaking view. 

My children.  Many have asked about them.  For the most part, the girls have adjusted to their new home, their new culture, their new life.  Most days, Rory, Claire and Jane seem quite content with our new surroundings.  Yet, at moments, catching me unaware, a conversation begins.  Homesickness, the longing for the comfortable, the easy, the tears all break forth: a brief flood of emotion.  We talk.  We comfort.  We pray.  An hour later, joyful giggles erupt from the same mouth that let out gasping sobs shortly before.  Life continues.  Michael heads off to work.  Rory goes to school.  Claire and Jane stick with me.

When I am out with them, I never quite know what to expect.  A family with three children is uncommon is Moscow.  City life, cost of living and harsh weather conditions make for a challenging environment.  Yet, the Russian people seem to dote upon these little people.  Older men have stopped to beam at me as I navigate the market.  Older women lean in to gush and touch their rosy cheeks.  Babushkas fuss at me for not dressing them properly (I do not wrap scarves around the children’s mouths and necks; we might never get out if I did!)  Countless hands help my children on and off the bus.  Many sacrifice their seats so my little ones can sit.  And, almost everyone who walks through our door (that knows we have children), brings them treats -- be it the landlord’s relative or a kind friend from the church.  Even when we visit the gym, the children are given special attention.  (Possibly due to the afore-mentioned sweet treats.)  They even have their own aerobics instructor! Throughout the day, a fitness expert teaches 30 minute exercise classes to the group of children; I watch them stretch, run, jump and roll.  They work out!  Afterwards, the children (especially, my girls) enjoy craft time and directed creative play – instructed almost solely in Russian.  Outside of the gym, the kiddos can spend their energy on one of the many playgrounds that seem to rise up out of the snow, like colorful steel rainbows.  I mean, I pass three different play areas during my 7 minute walk to Rory’s bus stop!  Sand toys become snow toys, and voila – FUN in the SUN (and snow).       

Almost everything I can comprehend communicates the idea that children are prized.  (I would agree.  J)  Never do I feel or get the impression that children are viewed as burdens. 

That causes me to wonder… If I could understand the words that are said to and about my children, what would they be?

Would I hear what I have so often heard in America?  “Well, you certainly have your hands full!”  Or, this, “Enjoy every moment while you can!”  While I learned a response to the first, “Yes, full of good things,” (I stole that from some other sweet momma.), I never really knew how to handle the latter.  Enjoy. Every. Moment.  Inside, I would feel a weight of guilt.  A small inner voice would say, “But, I don’t enjoy every moment.”  Often, the well-meaning person would then add, wistfully, “They grow up before you know it…”  Pressure and panic.  Who knew the check-out line in Target could make me feel like such a failure? 

I admit it.  Sometimes, I don’t enjoy my children.  I would like to go to the restroom uninterrupted.  I do not like cleaning up another person’s vomit – no matter how small that person may be.  I am embarrassed when my child throws a foot stomping, arm folded, scream out loud tantrum in the middle of a store (speaking, hypothetically, of course).  I could forgo my role as mediator in the midst of a sibling showdown.  I am saddened when one child has hurt another.  And, quite frankly, I fail to enjoy my kiddos because I am a sinner.  I am selfish.  So are they.  That’s the truth of my heart. 

The absolute truth, the Word of God says, “Behold, children are a gift of the Lord, the fruit of the womb is a reward.  Like arrows in the hand of a warrior, so are the children of one’s youth.  How blessed is the man whose quiver if full of them; they will not be ashamed when they speak with their enemies in the gate.”  What do these verses mean?  Does Psalm 127 communicate, “Enjoy every moment?”  How does this Scripture affect my view of my children? My role as a parent?  I ponder this. 

Gifts.  I will make another confession.  I do not like every gift I have been given.  And, I am certain that others have not enjoyed every gift I have given them.  Ask Choo Lee; for our annual Home Fellowship Group’s Christmas Party, he unwrapped $10 of Pedigree dog food coupons.  Or, the following year, Amber and Jonathan Newell walked away with Evil “Bundt Cake Santa” (imagine the Christmas version of Chuckie).  Boy, do the Thatcher’s relish a good white elephant gift exchange!  Yet, despite the (intentional) bad gifts, these people are still my friends.  Our relationship isn't about the gifts.      

Suddenly, like a balloon being popped, the pressure and guilt are released from my heart.  My emphasis is on the wrong word, the wrong person. It is the Giver of the gift that matters.  Children are a gift.  They are something given.  They come from the very hands of God.  He forms every man in his mother’s womb.  He gives breath and life and being.  And, then, He bestows His creations upon us, fellow creatures.  We are given the works of His Hands.  We have the responsibility and privilege of knowing, caring for, loving, training and shepherding God’s precious and spectacular handiwork – children.  But, ultimately, they belong to Someone else. 

My children are made by and for God.  They were not designed for my enjoyment, my fulfillment, my happiness.  I was not designed for theirs.  Our purpose is far greater.  We – me, you, my three little girls – are here to bring glory to our Maker.  We were not placed on this planet to satisfy one another.  My life, my value, my joy, my peace, my satisfaction is not dependant upon the gift of children (or, the gift of marriage, friendship, earthly blessing, etc.).  No.  Only one gift supplies all of that (and more): God wrapped in human flesh and given to die on our behalf.   

A few days ago, Rory asked me, “Mommy, how can you be kind all the time?”  I froze.  Was she kidding?!  I laughed.  Had she forgotten the innumerable times I have asked her to forgive me for my LACK of kindness, my rudeness to her?!  I looked at her again.  Rory’s face was earnest.  I bent down, close to her, and said, “I’m not kind all the time, Rory.  And, when I am kind it’s because Jesus helps me to be.” 

This dialogue has stuck with me.  How often have I prayed, begging God to cover my mistakes with His infinite grace?  How often have I brought my failures as a parent to His feet, in despair?  How often have I cried out for wisdom, understanding, patience and love?  Here, in real time, in daily life, is an answered prayer, a vivid example of God’s mercy.  My God knew exactly what He was doing when He placed these three small people in my life.  He knew He had given me far more than I could handle – on my own.  He knows my limitations, my weaknesses, my strengths, my sins... That is why these three children are mine (for a time).   

I do not need to (nor can I) enjoy every moment with my children.  I do not need to be (nor can I be) a “perfect” mother (whatever that is).  I need only to trust in Christ, MORE.  I need only to rely on the Giver, whose gifts are meant to draw me ever closer to Him in worship and adoration.  When Rory, Claire and Jane look at me, I hope they see a broken woman rejoicing in her dependence on an awesome and adequate Savior.  When I look at them, I see living proof of God's grace.         

Sometimes, I will shout with joy and thanksgiving over the lives of my children.

Sometimes, I will mourn over the missteps, mistakes and rebellion in their lives.

Sometimes, I will weep for and with them.

Sometimes, I will laugh and dance alongside them.

Sometimes, I will love them from afar.

Sometime, I will let them go, see them off… 

When I do, I hope, with all that is within me, that my three beautiful and precious gifts RUN to the arms of their Maker -- the Giver of all good things.  And, someday, I hope He gives them the gifts He has given me – children.          

A young lady from the church took and sent me these photos of the girls.  You may begin to notice a pattern...

Jane and Rory pose together. 

Not so little anymore, are they?

Claire runs in.

And, after this pic, she races out.

Jane,

Jane, and

Jane!

Not surprisingly, the photographer later mentioned that Jane was quite comfortable in front of the camera; in other words, she's a ham.  I have no idea where she gets that...