Banana skins

A few weeks ago I was sitting reading my book when I suddenly realised I couldn't hear anything.  This is never good in a house containing a toddler.  I jumped up and found my son sitting on our kitchen floor surrounded by the contents of our bin and happily munching a banana skin.

Sighing I reached out to remove it from his mouth.  He found this unacceptable.  And I would imagine the following thoughts (were he capable of thinking in coherent sentences) went through his mind:

"Why would mummy not want me to eat this?  It looks like a banana.  It tastes like a banana.  Bananas are good.  Why can't I keep this one?  Why is mummy being so mean?  Doesn't she love me?  Doesn't she pander to my every request and voluntarily give me bananas?  Doesn't she want me to be happy?  She is a mean mummy.  And I intend to express my displeasure now by screaming, then going rigid and then sulking.  And nothing is going to stop me from demonstrating - ooh?  What's that?  A wooden spoon AND a saucepan lid?  How exciting!  I wonder what will happen if I..."

What my son couldn't understand is that whilst he found something that looked like it might satisfy in the same way his breakfast bananas do, it was actually merely a shell.  It contained very little of substance and it was never going to give him what he actually wanted.  It was never going to build him up and, if chewed on for too long, would have made him feel pretty ill.

It seems so obvious and yet all too often I find myself behaving in the same way. Being a stay-at-home mum is pretty exhausting.  In those rare moments when my son is napping or otherwise occupied by kitchenware, it can be so tempting to metaphorically (and literally) snack on anything that's going to give me a bit of light relief.  When I feel lonely, I turn to Facebook.  When I want escapism I browse i-player or dig out an old Agatha Christie.  If I feel my life lacks glamour (a pretty perpetual problem when you're usually covered in food or snot) I whip out Hello! magazine. And yes, when I want a shot of energy I reach for a chocolate bar.  Or two.

These things all have their place.  And I'm certainly not suggesting these things are bad - sometimes they're just the ticket to keep us sane.  But I know that if I live on these things alone pretty soon my energy levels are going to fail and I'm going to feel disillusioned about life.

And so at present I'm trying to occasionally slip in some nourishing 'real banana'.  Instead of always watching a film when I iron, I might occasionally watch a sermon (it's not that holy - there are some really good ones out there.  Honest.  Try HTB's website as a starting point...).  Sometimes I'll read something other than a novel - previous posts will tell you that I'm a big fan of Eugene Peterson.  And then of course there's always the Bible as a good antidote to the fake glamour of Hello!...

It's slow going.  [And just in case you're rolling your eyes imagining that I'm some holier-than-thou idiot, I spent this morning at the cinema while my son was at the childminder.  It was amazing.  Even if I did get some strange looks from the rest of the school-age cinema goers...]  Banana skins are easy and accessible and sometimes downright fun.  But you know what?  I find I'm a better mum when I'm not so ravenous.  And that's true both metaphorically and literally.

Sheep pens

I read these verses from Psalm 78 this morning:

'He chose David his servant

    and took him from the sheep pens;

from tending the sheep he brought him
    to be the shepherd of his people Jacob,
    of Israel his inheritance.

And David shepherded them with integrity of heart;
    with skillful hands he led them.'

Sheep pens are smelly, generally fairly unpleasant places.  And being a shepherd was considered a job so menial that it was fobbed off on the lowest and the least.  Being the youngest of eight brothers, meant that this task fell to David.

I suspect that as David spent day after day after day watching the family flock he probably wondered what on earth his life could amount to.  There was little hope for promotion or even change.  That was his lot.  And so he had a decision to make.  Was he going to spend his life frustrated and angry, or was he going to embrace his role and do it to the best of his ability?  He went for the latter, little knowing that God was waiting for him to develop all the necessary skills he'd need for the astonishing plans God had in store.

One day, on a day like any other, his life suddenly changed.  He went from being a shepherd of sheep to a shepherd of men.  He was anointed King.  A nobody to the biggest Somebody.  

If you're a mother then your days will probably be spent like mine: clearing up toys, cleaning food from walls (my son's latest 'trick'), putting the washing on, taking it out, changing nappies...  It's fairly unglamourous work, but it needs to be done.  And yet we have a choice about our attitude when we do it.  Singing 'Yippee!' as we face the fifth nappy of the day might be a tad unrealistic, but thanking God that our child has a working bowel system (even as we wrinkle our nose) might not be (and if you snort then watch Born to be Different on 4OD).  

And who knows what these days are preparing us for?  God has plans for our lives and you never know when the ability to change a nappy whilst preventing a small child from crawling away might just come in very handy... 

It's a trust thing...

Last night in bed (at 9.25pm - I live a crazy life) I read this:

'We are not made to live in cramped conditions.  We are not so constructed that we can be satisfied with feelings of impotence and insignificance.  We are made 'little less than God' [Psalm 8]' Eugene Peterson 'Travelling Light'

I can relate to this.  One of the biggest daily battles I face is, 'Is what I'm doing important?  Does it matter?'

Peterson goes on to talk about the different ways that we seek to get in control of these feelings.  We buy an outfit in the hope that it will make us feel more glamorous (and, in my case, look a leetle bit more like the effortless French mummies I see around the place - how do they wear heels and chase toddlers?  HOW??).  We read the latest self-help book, go on the latest diet, post a photo on Facebook in which we look particularly yummy and yes, some of us may even blog about our lives (ahem!).

It's not that any of these things are wrong, but our motivation behind them might be.  Ultimately it's a trust issue.  Do I trust that God knows what he's doing in placing me here and do I trust that God can get me to where he wants me to be in the future?  Do I trust that he can be trusted with my life so I don't have to have all the answers?

Yes blog (in my case), but if no-one reads it, don't panic.  Buy the dress, but know that your beauty and importance come from who you are not what you wear.  Diet if you must, but realise that the answer to 'do I have significance?' will never be found on the dial of your bathroom scales.

When we trust we gain freedom.  Freedom from the fear of impotence and insignificance.  Freedom from trying to have it all sorted.  Freedom from comparison with others.  Freedom to enjoy the now rather than worrying about the 'what's next?'.

I'll give the last word to Peterson: 'Freedom comes from trusting, not from manipulating, from leaving matters to God rather than trying to be in control.'

Unconditional love

I've had a pretty horrible cold of late.  The kind which infiltrates your sinuses, disables your taste buds and makes you want to crawl back under the covers.  A few days ago I woke up and summoned enough energy to sit up in bed and watch with apprehension as the wiggling mass of energy which is my son was plonked on our bed by Mr F.  "Hello darling," I croaked faintly. "Mummy's feeling a little delicate today, so can you be loving and very, very quiet for her?"  My son grinned up at me, lifted his pudgy little hand and slapped me.  Right on the nose.  It hurt.  A lot.  And yes, I cried.  Mr F, seeking to reassure me, brightly remarked, "He's only 13 months Bekah.  He doesn't know any better.  And it's probably his way of showing love." I glared at him and stalked off to find solace in a cup of tea.

But it got me thinking about the nature of love.  As a parent our role to to show unconditional love to our children.  Literally, love without conditions.  My love for my son is not conditional on whether or not he tidies away his toys, learns to walk, gives me kisses or sleeps through the night.  If he throws his food on the floor, I love him.  If he digs up my newly planted petunias, I love him.  And if he slaps me - unintentional or not - I love him.  Now, don't get me wrong: there's a bigger discussion to be had about discipline and consequences.  But aside from all that, my love for him is without conditions.  There should be nothing he can do or say that will make me stop loving him.  I might not like him at times, but I should always love him.

I know that God loves me unconditionally.  And yet sometimes, when I'm having a particularly grumpy day, I can't help thinking that God's love comes to me with conditions attached.  'Oh that Bekah.  She's lost her temper with other drivers seven times today.  Seven!  Shocking.  It makes me love her a little less.'  Or, 'Why on earth does Bekah insist on comparing herself with other mothers?  She knows that it only plays on her insecurities and makes her irritable.  Grief, if I've told her once I've told her a thousand times.  Honestly, I really don't love her when she's like that.'  Or, 'Bekah hasn't read her bible today.  Or yesterday.  She can't really love me all that much. Well fine.  I don't love her that much today.'

Ludicrous isn't it?  And yet...

God loves me unconditionally.  Without conditions.  Yes he'd like me to stop proverbially slapping him and start showing him more love.  But his love for me remains the same whether I do that or not.  And that is awe-inspiringly amazing.  And pretty darned humbling.

Hidden mess

A few days ago I had just finished giving my son his lunch.  He's now eating for himself and this usually results in an enormous mess.  But not this time.  Nothing on the floor.  Nothing left on his plate.  I was feeling pretty smug and congratulating myself on my parenting techniques.  But as I removed his full-sleeved bib, congealed scrambled egg suddenly just appeared.  He'd managed to hide it up his sleeves, in the front pocket, underneath the bib - I even found some tucked away behind him on his highchair seat.  I reckoned he'd squirrelled away 90% of his meal.

As I went to get a cloth I began thinking that he'd perfectly illustrated how we so often do life.  To a casual observer most of us look like we've got it together.  True some of us have more yoghurt stains on our clothes than others (it's the tell-tale sign of a mother with young children), but by-in-large we all manage to look like we're Doing Fine.  

But the problem is, although not many people can see it, our mess remains.  My quickness to snap at those I love most when I'm having a bad day.  My internal critique and judgment of others.  My failure to act in the face of another's suffering - even if that suffering is simply loneliness which could so easily be alleviated with a phone call.

I could have ignored the remnants of scrambled egg and encouraged my boy to run along and pay and not worry about it. But had I done so I would have been doing him an immense disservice.  He needed to get cleaned up so that he could be free to enjoy his afternoon.

We all have hidden mess.  And it's only by acknowledging the mess and getting it cleaned up that we can be free from the guilt and stink that Ignored Mess quickly becomes.  That's where Jesus comes in.  He's not fooled by our attempts to cover our failures.  He looks us in the eye and says, 'Little one, you're a mess.  But if you let me, I can clean you of this squalor so you can be rid of it and get on and live life to the full.'