So Help Me, God
There’s nothing like a three-year-old to bring me to my knees…in prayer.
My son, Will, is terrified of loud noises. The mere thought of a hand-dryer in a public restroom has him doing the pee-pee dance while assuring us he does not need to go. The vacuum sends him running into the other room, or at least running to turn the TV up so that he can drown out the noise with the sounds of Thomas and Friends. The 4th of July? He talked about it for weeks in frightened anticipation. I focused on seeing family and eating homemade ice cream, trying to get him to forget about the threat of fireworks to no avail. He was dreading it.
The night came, and he had fun. There was food, family, and rain. No trip to the fireworks stand this year. He actually cheered when I broke the news. Someone had come prepared with bottle rockets and those little poppers you throw on the ground; and my husband, ever the life of the party, had brought a grand finale to make sure the night ended with a bang.
As everyone went in and out watching bottle rockets fly, Will stayed inside content. Moments before the grand finale was to go off, I tried to coax him out with me, promising to hold his ears for him. He wouldn’t have it. I walked out just in time to see my husband and brother-in-law light the huge firework and get about five feet from it when it exploded on the ground. Arches of light and smoke reached in every direction, and I ran to make sure my husband was OK. After seeing that he was fine, I went to make sure my 15-month-old baby was not crying in the arms of my mother-in-law. He was unaffected by it all. Completely stunning and repeating, “Oh my gosh…oh my gosh,” under my breath over and over, I walked inside.
Will was inside with his uncle, one tear still on his cheek. Uncle Reed had been the first one inside after the big explosion and found Will with my mother-in-law’s dog huddled in the corner crying. Apparently, it wasn’t just loud and scary outside… it was loud and scary inside as well. And he had been alone.
“Will, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know it was going to be that loud. I never would have left you if I had known.”
“Mommy, I cried for you, and I waited and waited…”
My heart was broken. I had failed him. It’s not the first time, and it surely won’t be the last. But I bet it won’t ever hurt less. I apologized over and over. I watched as he went back to playing happily, and I felt no better. I’ll probably remember that for the rest of my life, and he’s probably already forgotten.
I got into bed that night acutely aware of my weaknesses, not just as a person, but as a mother. I opened my Bible and study book and read the book’s chapter about Mary, instantly wondering if she felt similar emotions. Did she feel inadequate to fill such an important role in His life? Did she second-guess herself as she raised the Son of God? Did she ever disappoint Him?
After finishing my Bible study, I prayed. I pleaded with God for wisdom as I raise my boys. I prayed for patience and a good attitude. I asked for help, just like I do everyday. And that night, I spoke the sentence that summed it all up: Lord, please just help me not screw them up! And I’ve been praying it ever since.
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