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It was one of those kind of mornings.
Actually, it’s been one of those kinds of months.
All five of us woke up on the wrong side of the bed. The noise level was deafening from the moment the boys’ feet hit the floor. My husband and I argued about something trivial related to the homemade donuts I had attempted for breakfast. Our littlest had so many meltdowns that I had no other option but to put her back to bed for a few hours. I didn’t get any coffee until at least 10 am.
The mood in our house imitated the cloudy day outside our windows.
Lately, our home has felt more like a prison than a haven.
It could be the winter weather that has trapped us inside for the last 5 months.
It could be the middle of the school year blues.
It could be the fact that we spend almost every waking hour with one another.
It could be the germs that won’t leave our health alone.
As I was lying on the hardwood floor next to my daughter’s bed trying to coax her to sleep, it hit me.
The emptiness I felt in our family was because we had once again forgotten the gospel.
Chaos and stress cause us to default to our natural tendencies. Mine is perfectionism and law (for others, of course). My training lately has turned something similar to that of a military officer. Do this! Clean this! Stop that!
The harder I try, the more our weaknesses as a family are revealed. I demand certain behaviours without reminding them of the Person who can enable those actions.
A friend once told me that she felt she was failing at what our family must be doing perfectly and consistently. The truth is that it has been weeks since we’ve had a family worship time. My instruction to the kids to read the Bible gets almost as many eye rolls as when they’re asked to clear the table after dinner. I could name at least a dozen things off the top of my head that need desperate improvement in our home.
The sun peaked through the low-hanging clouds outside. The bright rays cut through the dimness of the house and pierced my heart with hope. I embraced a rare quiet moment to preach to myself.
My standing before a holy God does not depend on the standard of my living, but on the sacrifice of my Savior.
Gentleness can replace my short fuse because His kindness brings me to repentance.
Grace and forgiveness can be given freely (parent to child, child to parent, and sibling to sibling) because of the great debt that was paid at the cross.
Paul Tripp in his book Parenting offers this necessary reminder,
“No parent gives mercy better than the one who is convinced that he desperately needs it himself.”
I am definitely desperate, and I am choosing to cling to the new mercies He offers me each day. His power is made complete in my many weaknesses. Maybe their mommy’s obvious need for grace will allow my children to grow up trusting in an almighty, unfailing power outside of themselves. Maybe our family shortcomings and the forgiveness we offer through Christ will give them a framework of gospel hope on which to build their lives. I cling to the fact that because of Jesus, God is redeeming and reconciling all things (even temper tantrums and bouts of depression) – everything – to Himself for His ultimate glory.
There is eternal good even in the most cloudy of days.