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?

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.