It was one of those mornings. I could not pull myself out of bed, then I could not pull myself away from the morning news. My husband was very concerned with with the status of his tribe on his computer game. My son interpreted “put your socks on” to mean “do a somersault over the chair.” My daughter thought she had an abscessed tooth and was obsessed with the fact we had not turned the permission slips for the after school club on time.
I didn’t even have time to shower. I signed the permission slips, called my mom to provide transportation, and wrote a note for the bus driver. I put my leather dress shoes on (which went really well with my plaid pajama pants), grabbed a bag of flavored rice cakes that would suffice for breakfast, and hurried my kids into the minivan.
I drove to the school where my kids get on a school bus to another school. We sat in the van with the heat on until the bus rounded the corner. As I yanked open the van door (the automatic button isn’t working) I saw a reflection of myself in the van window. Bespectacled, with hair that hadn’t seen a brush for 24 hours, I couldn’t believe I was out in public.
My son jumped out of the van and into the path of an oncoming vehicle in the parking lot. “Watch for cars!” I shouted. I made sure they made it to the door of the bus, only to hear my daughter shouting that my son left his backpack in the van (again). I looked. No backpack. Apparently he never grabbed it from the house. I told him to get on the school bus.
As I spent a quick 13 minutes getting ready for work, drove to work, and arrived late for back-to-back meetings, my daughter was texting me to bring my son’s backpack to the school. When I checked my phone I had two calls from the school, letting me know how worried my daughter was that her brother wasn’t going to be able to go the club without his permission slip and the bus driver already had a note and how was he going to get home?
I faxed the permission slip to the school office, asking the secretary to assure my daughter that all was well. My daughter is always concerned that things aren’t going to be done the way they should be done. Sometimes I wonder if she remembers that I’m the mom!
I think God looks at us the same way when we worry and fret over all the details of our lives, worrying about what might happen or what might not happen. In the same way my daughter had trouble trusting that I could take care of the situation, sometimes I forget to trust my needs, desires, health, and lives to God. He probably throws His hands in the air and shakes His head, like I did. “Why doesn’t she trust me to take care of things? I’m God.”