Remember Who I Am

When I tell you nothing has humbled me quite like motherhood has, I need you to lean in and hear me. I’ve gained a great deal of confidence in my thirties, thank goodness. I think that has come with age, trial and error, motherhood, and a lot of rejection. Rejection is failures first cousin and when the two treat you to a whirlwind romance, you get a thick skin.

Especially if they court you over a season of infertility.

The internet has watched me fail time and time again to carry a child.

You should consider me bulletproof.

But these last few years have provided the confidence to at least try…need a job to get done? I’m your girl.

Need a tactful but firm email sent, *cracks knuckles*.

Need a last-minute recipe?

Have a friendship issue that needs guidance? —I can now handle the trickiest of curve balls with some air of grace and stability. And I certainly have the confidence to admit that I don’t know it all, I don’t have all the answers, and I’m okay with admitting so.

There is freedom in not knowing it all.

But back to the point—a good dose of humility via a three year old and God.

If I think I can escape a breakfast routine without my son pointing out a zit then I’m setting myself up for failure. If I limp or make a noise standing up because of age or if I slept wrong, he will ask me about my bo-bo or call me old. We are now approaching the age where I break out into sweats standing in the line of a quiet post office.

What will he ask?

What will he say?

What person will he point out and ask, “Mama, why her face look like that?”

Yesterday, we were rushing through the grocery store, and I hadn’t noticed in my hurry just how tired he was. We rounded the corner for our last item as he told me he had the hiccups. Without thinking to continue the conversation about his hiccups I immediately began trying to pretend scare him, ya know, to scare the hiccups away. This is not how my three-year-old wanted me to handle the situation.

And when I tell you he raised his voice at me, loud capping my ass in the paper towel isle, I was quite taken aback. I’d never heard his voice reach that volume.

“STOP THAT *HICCUP* MAMA! STOP IT RIGHT *HICCUP* NOW! DO NOT TICKLE ME!”

My face flushed. I hadn’t expected that reaction.

“I wasn’t trying to tickle you, baby,” I whispered.

“I was just trying to scare your hiccups away.”

And then out of nowhere a very Julia Sugarbaker response escaped me.

“And you remember who I am when you speak to me.”

Whewee.

Remember who I am when you speak to me.

I could feel God giving me the side eye. Humbled on the spot, I grinned and whispered back to my Father, “Touché.”

How often do we forget who we are speaking to when we are in prayer to God?

I think I forget that in so many ways.

Begging him to see what we see, He does.

Praying over and over and over again for grace, take a hint.

Suggesting how we will be happiest in the outcome of whatever we are praying for, ya know, just so God knows how we will feel about His answers.

I’ve prayed many irreverent, disrespectful prayers over the years. I’ve prayed for healing when I was bitter to be praying over my body in the first place. I’ve prayed for a miracle not fully believing He would provide one, and I’ve certainly prayed from a place of desperation—as if God’s Kingdom was a last resort and not the first point of contact. I forget in my assorted prayers who God is, and I love, love, love that the Father has reached me more through my own child lately—I love that He has shown me who He is as a parent through my own parenthood.

Remember who I am when you speak to me. If that isn’t a lesson straight from God then I don’t know what is.

I am humbled these days by my child’s unpredictable outbursts, comical commentary, and his many questions, but I’m looking forward to each lesson the Father extends to me gently through motherhood.

Remember who He is when you speak to Him.

He is a gentle parent, isn’t He? Firm and all knowing, He can see the bigger picture much like I can with my own son. What we may confuse for a no, or an unanswered prayer could be so many things from God. A protection, a wait, a humble lesson of sharpening iron, guidance still, and a patient grace we don’t deserve.

While I hope I’m always quick on my feet to discipline my son and remind him of who I am when he chooses to raise his voice to me in Kroger (I was told age three would bring me to my knees), my hope runs deeper for God to tap me on the shoulder in my motherhood to show me His ways, over and over again.

My love,

BH