I am that mom.
The one who has a gaggle of kids, sitting alone in church.
I am that mom. The one you look at with pity--or criticism--the mom who has a kid sitting in her gaggle who just did THAT in church, when everyone is silent and the pastor's praying.
I am that mom, whose shoulders shake during the prayer because I'm crying so hard at my circumstance, my humiliation, and my anticipation of what's coming next. What's the next disruption my family can manage to include in this one hour long beating of sitting together to focus on the beating of a Savior?
I am that mom, who you might think needs a good talking to because her children are OLD ENOUGH TO KNOW, but they don't behave, and they are disrespectful and loud and angry and giggly and all the things we were never allowed to be in church.
I am that mom who read the SAME parenting books as the mom across the aisle whose kids sit nicely and behave.
I am that mom who may have once judged another mom whose kids were out of control at church, and was miffed that they would disrupt my worship session.
I am that mom who's eating crow.
I am that mom whose family is broken. We just are. We are all grieving. And every church service is a flat-out reminder that we are still in the cycle of grief. Sure, we might not have suffered divorce, or death, or financial ruin--but we are grieving just the same.
Is that why my children--the gifted and talented one, the superstar athlete one, the compassionate, ginormous heart one, and the larger-than-life one--become weighted down with bad behavior when we sit there, trying to focus on the God Who was flushed away by the one person we all love so very much?
I am crushed by my embarrassment. I am absolutely distraught in my hopelessness. And I find myself on the verge of tears even twelve hours later.
Have you ever been there? Have you ever felt like an ant under a spy glass with your tribe throwing knives at you?
My only saving grace is a friend who was there to listen to me weep afterward. A friend who understands the immense pressure I feel, and the possible ground of attack that has replaced our foundation.
I am that mom, who might just let her kids sleep in on Sunday morning, and many Sundays after.
I am that mom, who, if you see me with my eyes closed in prayer, with five empty seats about me, I am praying my heart out for my family.
For the grief.
For the healing.
But most importantly...
For a hopeful future season of renewal and resurrection. And if I see another mom, struggling to maintain her composure, I can be of encouragement and tell her I've been that mom too.
