The house is a mess. Not the typical mess of books and Batman figures and Legos strewn across the floors. But a true mess. Piles of laundry. Stacks of dishes. Smudges on the counters and muddy puppy prints on the floors.
“Guys, I need help,” I say.
My usually helpful boys scatter.
We’ve had some crazy living lately. Day-long swim meets. Commitments running wild. It amazes me how our home can fall apart when we’re living in the van.
“Guys?” I call.
Silence.
I shout up the stairwell.
Silence again.
I start to feel frustrated. And as I look around, frustration turns to anger and my temper flashes fast. I pick up a stray shoe. A still-sweaty sock. A granola bar wrapper that someone left on the floor.
And I melt.
I become a loud, shouting mess.
Never mind that the character trait we’ve been working on this week is self-control.
Never mind that the children now come charging down the stairs–alarmed by my outburst.
I’m on a fast track to a fit, and I can’t hold back.
A couple of hours later, after everyone has pitched in, after the house is a more presentable form of mess, after the children I’m upset with are long tucked in bed, I’m still holding frustration.
I’m frustrated with my own behavior. I’m frustrated that with the original behaviors that pushed me to the brink. I start the kettle for a cup of tea and sink into the sofa in the schoolroom.
And then I see the script.
It’s on the chalkboard, and it’s the scrawl of a child. A list of prepositions has been erased for the message. And the message hits me in the center of the heart.
I love you, Mom.
Some little boy had written it, no doubt, while he was picking up the schoolroom. While I was probably ranting in the room next door. Shame and guilt settles hard.
And Lonny finds me there. Gulping mom-guilt and shedding tears.
His arm slips around my shoulders. “So you say you’re sorry,” he says. “And the kids learn to forgive.”
I take Lonny’s advice and wake three sleeping boys. They rub their eyes, and I speak from the heart. I ask for forgiveness, and they extend grace. They ask for forgiveness, and I offer grace, too.
And I hold them in the dark.
It’s striking to me, how imperfect we are. How easily we break at the seams. How quickly, even as Spirit-filled believers, we give way to sins of the flesh. But we can learn the practice of asking for forgiveness. We can learn to forgive.
And we have peace because we know that the Lord forgives us, too.
As I lie beside my sons and think, something about this all becomes beautiful.
There’s perfect grace and love in our crazy, imperfect mess.
