I'm sucked into the vortex named Pinterest and see a cute Father's Day idea.
Socks with paint footprints on them filled with lovely things to deodorize Dad's shoes.
I smile first, because my dear husband's feet do not stink. No kidding. They are boats with toes on the tops and they for real don't stink.
I think it's a cute and well thought idea anyway.
Who wouldn't love to see the teeny footprints of their littles on some stuffed socks falling out of their shoes in the morning?
My Pinterest staycation is ended with dishes that someone forgot to gather in the rush to complete their chore for the night.
I gather cups and forks and grumble.
It's amazing how I can gather Father's Day ideas one minute and want to put someone to bed three hours early the next.
Motherhood is surprising like that.
You can smile and accept yet another wildflower offering in the mid-morning and grumble that there are no clean glasses left at the end of the day.
Almost like you need a deodorizer for your spirit.
Walking though life with littles is wonderful.
It is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to show a glimpse of God's character in these little years when kind words heal and soft hugs turn little girls into spaghetti in your arms.
It is a cotton candy, rainbow, marshmallow fluff kind of feeling at times.
These times are usually before you remember how much laundry has rolled-over from yesterday.
And while showing someone who the Creator of the universe is to them is amazing, we too are just flesh and bone created by the very same one we are pointing little eyes to.
We fail, we disappoint, we hurry and speak harshly and forget and remember wrongs.
We are not God.
We are his creation.
We are learning right along with the little ones in the little years.
And just as they are learning to jump into our arms and lay their head down and rest, so are we learning to jump and rest.
Last night I walked home from church through a sureal pasture of dandelions going to seed. The sun was almost set and white seeds were launching out with each step towards home.
I put one foot in front of the other and thanked God for the ability to do so. Little did I know that once home, I would be summoned to view a gash in a little's head and comfort him after a staple kept it closed. I looked at his little hospital band and thought that this is what memories are made of.
Jumping, resting, remembering that God is holding it altogether without my help.
Then one bites through her tongue on both sides. I should have spent more time wondering how to stop bleeding than trying to figure out how you do such a thing to YOURSELF while singing.
And back I go to the dishes. Joel and I sigh at eachother.
I am too tired to give everyone a bath again tonight so we wash only what dirt is viewable.
Hands, face, arms, and then it dawns on me that I am forgetting black little feet.
After setting a dish to soak I set a little on the counter to wash their feet, yes, in the kitchen sink.
Before I could warn they set their arm up to their elbow into the greasy dish.
This is too much.
I scold. I set them down to run to get changed, and I have changed.
Surely somewhere in the Cosmos it is justifiable to scold for sticking your arm in greasy water, but I know that I have hurt those I am supposed to be showing how to rest.
They come back, I lean down and catch tears on my arm. I swoop them up and kiss tears away.
I was wrong.
I ask for forgiveness and begin again.
I run the water just warm enough for little black stinky feet and lather up the soap.
"Look Mama! The soap is shaped like a heart!!"
Bright dark eyes still wet look at me as if we have unearthed a treasure that has been waiting on us for hundreds of years.
I roll the soap in my hand, around and around, and around while they just giggle at the thought.
That's what we Mama's do. We show the heart of God by using our own.
Sometimes it's dirty and smelly and sticky and rough, but we do it because it's our job. And when the coffee is poured and the last light turned out, we remember that we love it, this job of ours.
And each toe is clean and they lean into me and tell me that they "Love when you wash my feet."
And you think of the disciples who wanted nothing to do with the Lord touching their toes.
All dirty and smelly,
And yet they could have no part of Him if they did not understand what it meant to be a servant.
I dry feet carefully and wonder how the Holy Spirit can teach me so much in a moment's time. As if everything stood still and nothing was more important than dirt between toes.
That's just how He is.
Knowing where to meet us, knowing when we would jump and when we would lean hard into Him.
The days of Motherhood are long.
Though the years are short.
May I learn more of Him to teach Him to them.