Do not despise

Here’s Sulky Sue;

What shall we do?

Turn her face to the wall

Till she comes to.

If that should fail,

    A smart touch with the cane,

Will soon make her good,

    When she feels the pain.

Jacky Jingle and Sucky Shingle, 1800. (The Oxford Dictionary of Nursery Rhymes, Iona and Pete Opie, 1997)

“See that you do not despise one of these little ones, for I say to you, that their angels in heaven continually behold the face of My Father who is in heaven.”
Matthew 18:10

My third child began showing clear signs of orneriness before he was two years old. He didn’t talk very much, but his capacity for creating disaster trumped every energy reserve I had for toddler mischief. He was obsessed with cooking, the idea of playing with food and mimicking all kitchen activities. It seemed like every time I turned my back he was retrieving a fork from the silverware drawer to poke potatoes or whatever unlucky fruit was in the fruitbowl. Several times I caught him wadding up bits of newspaper and tossing them into my oven. He’d sneak graham crackers into his room to grate them on the screen window. He poured a sippy cup of milk into the oil diffuser and watched it bubble and smoke. More than once he asked me for water to put in his play kitchen. When I declined, I later found him emptying his small potty into the tiny soup pot.

My children are not especially good children. Neither are yours.

I think this comes as a blow to our self-assured nature in the times we are living. It seems as though culture these days won’t suffer intolerance, and yet they won’t suffer children either. And what parent doesn’t know that children are sometimes the most intolerable of creatures? I’ve never been more frustrated than with my own children. On the flip side, I’ve never felt more love for them. I would die for them. 

And there is a bonus, an even greater gift, I think. That they should love me back–this is undoubtedly the greatest reward for my trouble.
Yesterday my oldest kid accidentally ripped out an entire refrigerator shelf in a hurry to get milk for his cereal (he neglected to put aside his recent chapter book and his hands were too full). Condiments and glass jars came crashing to the floor. I spent the next half hour mopping up barbecue sauce and broken shards of glass, trying not to mutter nasty things. 

This same kid hugged me sporadically throughout the day and told me I had a servant’s heart (possibly super cheesy, but he’s nine. I eat it up). We are in a continual tug-of-war of deserving and undeserving, loving, despising, repenting, forgiving, and starting over. That there is any room at all for affection either given or taken–I cannot comprehend it. It’s too miraculous even amid all the mundane.

I remember when our little strong-willed chef boy was tiny. He was taking a very quiet bath in the tub, and I went to check on him. My suspicions were confirmed. He was silently shredding an entire roll of toilet paper into the water. White chunks floated around him and he swirled his hands through the mess, enchanted. When he heard my footsteps he looked up at me and frowned. I”m sure I shrieked a “What are you doing?!” before I yanked him out of the tub and sent him to his room. I fished the wads of TP out of the tub, drained it, and spanked the little boy’s bare bottom.

A few minutes later he boldly came out of his room and approached me, tears staining his cheeks. “Mom?” he said. “When you spank my bottom, God heals me.”

I felt the need to repent. Do not despise one of these little ones, Jesus said.

Being a parent is changing me into a far better person than I could have ever hoped to be. It’s forcing me to hold still and be more patient, and try not to flinch–sort of like a fierce game of Bloody Knuckles.
Still, sometimes I think we’d rather present our kids to the greater world as some sort of trophy. Something to be proud of, not something that has scarred us in the process of raising them. No one wants to see scars, ugly, though necessary.

We’d like to think our kids are sort of precious (they are!), but we like to let our toe slip over the line sometimes, considering them the most precious thing (they aren’t).

It reminds me of the adage, pearls before swine (Matthew 7:6). I’ve heard this metaphor a dozen times, specifically relating to children. What we usually ignore is the fact we are all far more piggish than we know. The precious pearls aren’t our children, it is our faith, which is worth more than gold (1 Peter 1:7). We are all beastlike and prone to trample pearls–some of us more subdued than the other. Jesus is saying we ought not dangle our faith out in front of folks who are hateful and intent on our destroying us. The waters ought to be tested before we share our hope (this is referring to the Gospel). We begin by tossing tasty morsels to a hungry, feral world. We show up as servants. We are laypersons–not gloating holier-than-thou selves, but showing up as peacemakers. We “live such good lives among the pagans that, though they accuse [us] of doing wrong, they may see [our] good deeds and glorify God on the day he visits us” (1 Peter 2:12). Bit by bit we pave the way to share the whole cookie. We find we haven’t had to knock on any doors and stand awkwardly–we’ve just naturally drawn the curious. We find ourselves in the path of confession–our appeal is less forced: “We implore you on Christ’s behalf: Be reconciled to God.” (2 Corinthians 5:20)

This might seem like the long way around. Actually, I’m sure it is taking the long way. Even writing about it has made me wonder, what’s your point, Pearl? Are you preaching? Well, sort of…yes. To myself.

I sit in church often and wonder as the communion plate is passed over my kids’ heads, if I’ve ever done anything right in raising them. I mean, I trust that we are running a long race here, but it’d sure be nice to have a little confirmation in the meantime–wouldn’t dunking him in the baptismal waters and letting him sip the teensy cup of grape juice give me some confidence? I haven’t forgot when he came home from church camp and earnestly remarked that he decided to “trust Jesus to forgive him.” I’m sure the camp staffers marked him down as saved, tallied his name right up there with the other little campers who made a “decision for Christ”. But what nine year old kid has really ever counted the cost of following Him? Why are we so eager to get his head wet and pass the bread? As much as I want my kids to believe what I believe, I cannot force their hand. I can’t in good conscience offer them a cup that represents blood when they’ve never really considered the cross. But I can keep pointing them at the world to behold its confusion. And I can lead them to the Word which offers hope; a light unto their path.

I’ll have to hold my hand steady and unflinching. These kids require some major attention. I’m older and more battle-worn, but I really don’t care. I adore watching them grow–out of the toilet paper shredding stage and into people just beginning to grasp Truth. I’m hoping they find me curious, magnetic, tolerable.
I find them a delight.

Let endurance have its perfect result, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing. But if any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask of God, who gives to all men generously and without reproach, and it will be given to him.

James 1:4-5