There are days, as a parent, that your kids will test you. They will fight each other like they’re trying to draw blood. They will disobey and defy you in ways that will knock you off your feet. And they’ll act out in ways that makes me think at least, “I was NEVER like this as a child.” 

And maybe I wasn’t, but I’m sure in other ways, I was. I can remember plenty of times I got in trouble for talking back, being mean to my brother, or being disrespectful. I can remember plenty of times that I slammed my door as a teen, thinking that would show my parents how angry I was. And I know that my parents still loved me through it, but now I know how they must have felt on the other side of that door.

Currently, as I write this, my one-year-old is “ballerina dancing” on the coffee table to the classical music playing in the room. Her hands are above her head, and she’s making clumsy, wobbly spins with a big, goofy grin. The living room is a mess, a pot of chili is cooling on the kitchen counter from dinner waiting for someone to put it away, and this mama is ready for bedtime.

Nothing is wrong. The kids aren’t misbehaving– except that I’d like the toddler to dance on the floor, not the coffee table– and there is no pressing things that have to be completed in the next hour, but I feel overwhelmed. And a part of me wonders: I wonder if Mary felt this way?

Having children is no joke. They will stretch you, they will challenge you, and they will push you to places mentally, physically, and emotionally that you have never been before.

I think the biggest lesson any parent learns is that everything changes. Nothing about life is designed to stay steady. If you’re a woman, your body changes in order to grow and bring that baby into the world. You gain weight; you find you have more skin, stretch marks, and changes to your body than you ever thought possible. Your body does new things like make milk and pushes the limits of exhaustion during those months and sometimes years that you wake up and settle your children back to sleep.

I remember singing “Because He Lives” in church as a little girl. From time to time, my childhood pastor would burst out into song in the middle of his sermons. Whether the tune fit into the message and was planned or because it welled up in his soul in the heat of the moment, there were often times where he’d start singing a hymn or a gospel tune from his childhood. 

I remember being a kid, sitting in the church pew, and hearing this commandment. I remember looking over at my mom who was giving me a look that said, “Did you hear that?” I probably rolled my eyes because I thought God was backing her up on the whole 8 p.m. bedtime and doing my chores thing. Back then, that’s what honoring my parents meant: obeying them and following the rules. And sure, maybe that’s part of honoring– listening, heeding, and abiding. But it goes deeper than the age-old “because I said so” mentality that we’ve attached to that idea.

My mom has been cleaning out the basement of her house. How do I know? Over the past week, I’ve gotten numerous texts asking if I want her to keep or send me certain childhood items to pass onto any children I may have one day. Disney VHS tapes, college decor, you name it. Well, one item she texted me, she knew I’d want to keep: the picture Bible that I’d always kept as a child. What I didn’t remember, was that someone very special had gifted that Bible to me: my Nana Jennie.

When I was a kid, I was always confused as to why Jesus was considered a part of Joseph’s bloodline. I mean, Jesus and Joseph shared no physical blood. Jesus was conceived with no participation from Joseph, so how could the Bible claim Jesus as a part of Joseph’s lineage?