Last fall, an old friend and I spent a weekend together. We talked about everything–kids,faith, birthday parties and school and church. But at the end of the weekend, my friend asked, “Do you always live in this place?”
“What place?”
“This place –talking about intellectual things all the time?”
Hmm. Well, yes, I guess I do. I looked back on that weekend and realized that in the midst of discussing what shoes she should wear to the wedding we were attending, we were also discussing gay marriage and disability rights and the theological implications of Jesus’ call for us to be “fishers of men.”
I guess I have a high tolerance for theoretical, theological, intellectual conversation. But there are days when, even for me, it’s just too much. The ethical issues surrounding preimplantation genetics and in-vitro fertilization and orphans and discrimination against people with disabilities and…
It’s on those days that I’m especially grateful to be a mom. Penny and William aren’t aware yet of life’s complexities. They just know that I love a hug and a kiss when I walk in the door. Penny knows I will melt when she says, “I missed you, Mom.” William knows he’ll get a high five when he says, “Clean up time!” and starts putting toys away.
And I know that I need their simplicity. I need the wonder of watching them grow up. The privilege of participating in that growth. Penny learning language: “I not can’t do it!” William starting to jump and throw balls and tug on my arm, “Spin, Mommy! Spin!” when he wants me to swing him around until he is drunk with dizziness. Penny sitting in the back seat saying, “Mom, let’s talk,” or asking, “[Did that] make you happy, Mom?” after she uses the potty.
“Yes, Pen. You make me happy.”
I need places to ask the big questions. And I need my children to remind me of the small joys.
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