"Mommy!! Can we PAINT!?"
I hesitate, stare into 3 pairs of pleading blue eyes and exhale. Do I have enough reserves of grace for this? It's just watercolor on scrap paper.... on our plastic kids table...next to the wipe-able painted wall. Yes, Lydia likes to imitate Jackson Polluck. Yes, Molly soaks her pages through every time. And yes, Isabella's pictures always end up black. Pure black. More is more, in her artistic opinion. It's not so bad (I tell myself). I'm a fun mom!
"Sure! Let's paint!"
About 7 minutes later, we are done. Art is made. Hands are washed. We onto our next activity: lunch. Molly looks at Isabella, "Isa, you have paint in your ear."
Isa looks at her incredulously, "I don't hear any paint."
How cute right? (What's not so cute is, I actually still forgot to clean her ear until bedtime....the unheard paint was still there.) #stillfunmom
Often, real-life analogies don't flow so readily into my reflections. But this paint got me thinking. What is the paint I don't hear? And who is there to point it out? I know I've got gobs of it smeared all over my face. Pride mixed with insecurity on my left cheek. Sarcasm begging for approval on my nose. Behind my ear I'm sure you'll see all my putting down, my masking the failures and my productivity before people issues. I'm covered.
Hold on. This is not a downer-post. But, just like I had to be realistic in my evaluation of could-I-handle-my-kids-painting; I need to be real here. And vulnerability is fine to put on my blog of a dozen readers (Hi Mom!), but it's another to live it out in real community. Eating lunch next to the person who's gonna be like, "You know that's not funny right?" or "Yeah, why do you always do that? Is that coming out of some hurt? Some insecurity?" or (eek!) "That hurt my feelings."
I think I have that lunch table. I have it Trans-Atlantic. I have it right here. [Here-here, not on this blog!] And I'm thankful. I may not wipe it off till bedtime. It may be pretty stuck on there (like the indigo on Isabella's fingernails). But my community is patient, forth-right and paint-sploched themselves.
Real community can (and should) give this grace to one another. Pointing out the paint that we are blind and deaf to. Can we respond in humility and ask for help wiping it off? For it is grace, as we look more like ourselves...reflecting the image of the One who made us.
I hesitate, stare into 3 pairs of pleading blue eyes and exhale. Do I have enough reserves of grace for this? It's just watercolor on scrap paper.... on our plastic kids table...next to the wipe-able painted wall. Yes, Lydia likes to imitate Jackson Polluck. Yes, Molly soaks her pages through every time. And yes, Isabella's pictures always end up black. Pure black. More is more, in her artistic opinion. It's not so bad (I tell myself). I'm a fun mom!
"Sure! Let's paint!"
About 7 minutes later, we are done. Art is made. Hands are washed. We onto our next activity: lunch. Molly looks at Isabella, "Isa, you have paint in your ear."Isa looks at her incredulously, "I don't hear any paint."
How cute right? (What's not so cute is, I actually still forgot to clean her ear until bedtime....the unheard paint was still there.) #stillfunmom
Often, real-life analogies don't flow so readily into my reflections. But this paint got me thinking. What is the paint I don't hear? And who is there to point it out? I know I've got gobs of it smeared all over my face. Pride mixed with insecurity on my left cheek. Sarcasm begging for approval on my nose. Behind my ear I'm sure you'll see all my putting down, my masking the failures and my productivity before people issues. I'm covered.
Hold on. This is not a downer-post. But, just like I had to be realistic in my evaluation of could-I-handle-my-kids-painting; I need to be real here. And vulnerability is fine to put on my blog of a dozen readers (Hi Mom!), but it's another to live it out in real community. Eating lunch next to the person who's gonna be like, "You know that's not funny right?" or "Yeah, why do you always do that? Is that coming out of some hurt? Some insecurity?" or (eek!) "That hurt my feelings."
I think I have that lunch table. I have it Trans-Atlantic. I have it right here. [Here-here, not on this blog!] And I'm thankful. I may not wipe it off till bedtime. It may be pretty stuck on there (like the indigo on Isabella's fingernails). But my community is patient, forth-right and paint-sploched themselves.
Real community can (and should) give this grace to one another. Pointing out the paint that we are blind and deaf to. Can we respond in humility and ask for help wiping it off? For it is grace, as we look more like ourselves...reflecting the image of the One who made us.
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