A small pair of pink and red rain boots lies in our entryway. They’re right there where someone would need to walk in order to reach the door or to enter our home from our front porch. I’ve told the owner of those boots at least 17,000 times not to leave them where people could trip over them. She forgot. Again.
And I don’t care.
There are toys scattered in the front yard that should have been put in their proper places. Seeing them, I wonder, What would a person think who saw my yard like this?
And I don’t care.
We had sandwiches and chips for lunch today. One of my children took too many chips. When that child asked to be excused, several chips remained on the plate. It was wasteful.
I don’t care.
I don’t care, because two days ago, a man walked into an elementary school in Connecticut and started shooting. Six adults and 20—twenty!—children lost their lives. They died because they went to school that day like they were supposed to.
This, I do care about. I care deeply and profoundly, in a way words can’t adequately describe. Even the tears I’ve shed aren’t sufficient to express the grief in my soul, which I feel not just because I’m a mother but because I’m a human being. The impact of this horrific event can’t be fully expressed, in words, tears, or any other way.
Something like this makes everything else fade into insignificance.
I do want my children to grow up to be self-disciplined. I want them to be good stewards of what God has given them. So maybe “I don’t care” isn’t the way to put it. Suffice it to say that on Friday, I realized that many of their actions that I used to get annoyed about were never the big deals I made them out to be.
Getting upset because I might have to repeat instructions to a child who innocently forgot? It’s not worth the disruption in my peace of mind or in my relationship with that child. It’s so not worth it.
The parents of the precious children who were killed two days ago would give anything to have their children back in their home, sitting at the table and taking too many chips. They’d give anything to have to step over a pair of rain boots that in reality aren’t ever going to be in the way again. The things I’m complaining about—having to clean up after my children, having to make another trip to the store—would be precious opportunities to these parents to hold and love their children a little longer.
What I must remember is that the only reason my children’s actions sometimes annoy me is that they are here and not in heaven with Jesus. Teaching a child to pick up rain boots is a small price to pay for having that child with me day in and day out.
If my child were to die tomorrow, my first thought would not be, “Boy, I’m glad I got so irritated about those boots, especially since time was so short and I didn’t know it.” And if that’s true—that these things wouldn’t matter at all then—do they really matter now?
That’s why I don’t care any more. The boots? I don’t care. The toys? Don’t care. The chips? Don’t care.
Yes, I will continue to try to teach my children to put their things away and take an appropriate amount of food. But being annoyed when they don’t? Not anymore. At least I hope not. I pray not. Because I want to spend every second with my precious kids appreciating them and loving on them—not complaining that they’re being children. I want the things that would matter then to matter now—the love and the hugs and the time together. The bedtime stories. The times we danced like crazy in the kitchen while listening to a CD.
Those things. Not the rain boots.
Never the rain boots.
Matthew 2:18—”A voice is heard in Ramah, weeping and great mourning, Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted, because they are no more.”
1 Corinthians 13:4-5—Love is patient, love is kind…It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.
A further word from Megan:
Sometimes, when we’re grieving, such as after the tragedy at Sandy Hook Elementary, it’s hard to find the words to pray. Hard to know how to express the groanings of our hearts. I’ve been asked to offer a prayer on behalf of all of us moms who are grieving over this tragedy. It is certainly no better than any prayer you would offer. But if you need help putting words to your prayers, or if you would just like to join moms everywhere in pouring out your heart to the Lord after the tragedy at Sandy Hook, I offer the following prayer for you. For me. For all of us.
Oh, God, our hearts cry out to You. In our grief and confusion, we have nowhere else to turn. We climb into Your lap weeping for those precious children and their families, those adults and their families. We wrap our arms around You and cling as tightly as we can, for the storms of rage and grief, pain and confusion and disbelief, are too strong for us, and if we don’t cling to You, we are destroyed. And as we cling, Father God, we feel Your tears, and we know that You grieve too. Not for the children, because they’re with You now, and You know that “in Your presence” is a far better place than down here. You grieve for those left behind–for those parents who must struggle to rebuild lives forever shattered by bullets, for the emergency workers who had to stuff their grief deep inside so as to appear strong, for all those who lost someone precious that day, and for those of us who simply grieve at how evil sprang into the world through the doors of an elementary school. You hate what sin in this world has done to us.
We don’t know where to go from here. We don’t know how to move on. We’re lost. So we beg Your Holy Spirit to intercede for us with groans words cannot express (Rom. 8:26). We beg for comfort, especially for those parents, brothers and sisters, and husbands or other family members of those killed at Sandy Hook. And yet, asking for comfort seems like nowhere near enough. So we ask You to do abundantly beyond all we ask or imagine (Eph. 3:20-21). You are Jehovah-Rapha, the God Who Heals. Pour Your healing into each heart and mind affected by this tragedy. Minister Your peace and comfort to those who so desperately need it. Whatever else we should be praying for, but don’t know it, please do that too. Father God, we weep with You. And we are humbled and consoled that You weep with us.
Amen.