I recently heard an interview on NPR that reminded me of an experience I had with one of my kids decades ago and of a Bible verse that encourages and comforts me now. The interview was with the author of a book called Hunt, Gather, Parent, based on the author’s observations of parenting styles in different cultures. She noted that the parents she observed had a very calm way of interacting with their kids, which she connected to the way they viewed them. She said, “It's not so much that they're suppressing anger towards children or suppressing frustration, it's that they look at children in a way that allows them to have less or really no anger.” She noted that the parents tended to see their kids as doing the best they could with the skills they currently had.
The interview triggered a memory. My baby son was crying inconsolably, I didn’t know why, and I was getting increasingly frustrated. As an aside, my late husband and I decided at some point that whenever we couldn’t figure out why our kids were crying, we would blame it on teething. It became a nice multi-purpose explanation that we expanded to other situations. (“The cat is bonkers today. Maybe she’s teething.” “Wow, I think maybe the lady from the grocery store was teething.”)
The thought that maybe my baby was teething didn’t help me, or maybe even occur to me, the morning in question. I was just exasperated that he wouldn’t calm down. Some of the details are fuzzy now after so many years, but the essence of the memory is that somehow my little one ended up with a spot of cornstarch on his forehead – sort of an Ash Wednesday look.
It flipped a switch in me. I looked at my baby with the smudge on his face and suddenly I saw him through different eyes. I thought, “He’s just a tiny baby who can’t even wipe the powder off his skin and probably doesn’t even know it’s there. He relies on me for absolutely everything, he’s distressed about something, and he’s using the only tool he’s got to communicate.” My frustration melted away and was replaced with compassion and patience.
That experience brings to mind Psalm 103, and two verses in particular. The writer David tells us that God is compassionate and slow to get angry, and then tells us one of the reasons why. “The LORD is like a father to his children, tender and compassionate to those who fear him. For he knows how weak we are; he remembers we are only dust.” (Psalm 103:13-14, NLT)
God doesn’t forget my fragility and utter reliance on him the way I briefly forgot that about my own child on that morning long ago. He sees stains on me that I can’t see or remove myself and he tenderly wipes them away. When he looks at me, his precious child, his eyes are gentle, affectionate, and kind. When I cry, he picks me up and holds me until I’m calm again.
God remembers that I’m made of dust and that my body has limits. As someone with a chronic illness, I’m acutely aware of that truth, but even the healthiest bodies have them. We don’t have unlimited physical, emotional, and spiritual resources. We do what we can, and then we have to stop.
Of course, there’s more to the story. I don’t want to use “I’m only human” as an excuse not to fulfill my calling or grow in holiness. What I’ve come to understand, though, is that sometimes I expect more of myself than God expects of me, or at least I expect different things. There are so many needs, so many demands, and so many things to worry about. It all feels important and urgent. I try to address it all instead of determining what God really wants of me and prayerfully leaving the rest in his hands. I forget to rely on God’s strength instead of my own to do what truly needs to be done.
I’m deeply grateful that God is compassionate and slow to get angry. I’m so thankful for his patience as I learn and grow. When I think about his tenderness toward his children, I can only respond the way David did multiple times in the psalm: “Let all that I am praise the LORD.”
Martha McLaughlin
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