This Saint Patrick’s Day, my family was getting ready to leave the house. The boys were all dressed in their green shirts, pants, and socks, ensuring that there was no way they would get pinched.
Samantha grabbed the green shamrock shirt she had in her drawer and said with a scowl, “I am not wearing this.”
I braided her hair, helped her get her leggings and socks on, and left the shirt sitting on the counter. Her scowl did not improve. I tried to encourage her to participate in the fun, while not pushing too hard. I have found this to be key in the delicate balancing act of parenting girls. When her hair was done, she asked if she had to wear the shirt. I responded, “You get to choose if you will enter in on the fun.” She left the room for a few minutes and came back in wearing the shirt. I didn’t mention it, and we got in the car.
Samantha slowed down in the hallway as we approached her classroom, looked up at me with her big green eyes, and said, “I hate this shirt.” “What do you hate about it?” I asked her. “I hate the frilly sleeves,” she responded and continued to pull at them relentlessly on the brink of tears. I walked her over to the church desk and asked if they had scissors. We tucked her arms into the body of the shirt and cut the frilly part right off. I held the frilly sleeves in one hand and Samantha’s hand in the other as she went skipping down the hallway. She looked up at me and said, “Thanks, Mom.” “Oh Samantha, I am for you,” I replied.
What mattered most that morning wasn’t wearing the shirt. What mattered most was both of us coming halfway, entering in, and figuring it out. I don’t want Samantha to sit on the sidelines so self-conscious that she lets life pass her by. She doesn’t want to draw too much attention to herself. So we met halfway.
This mom gig is tricky at times, but I want Samantha to know I see her and I am on her side. I am for her, just as God is for me. Eventually, I hope she will understand that God is for her.
The precious spot of being mom is that these big truths are built through the day-to-day happenings at home. They won’t be built by me forcing her arms into that ruffled shirt. They begin with a conversation which is built upon a relationship where we each ultimately choose to be for each other.
The times come when I need her to be for me too, and my sweet girl comes and puts her hand on my back and kisses my nose. Her big green eyes say, “We’ve got this.”
In our homes we build towards a picture of who God is to our kids. Our God, this love, is a love worth coming home to.
