This Means War

If you have ever been caught in a battle with a (nearly) three year-old, you know that it is worse than most battles fought with swords and clubs. Today, even though I picked my battles, I somehow still managed to find myself in three distinctive ones.

It all started when Olivia decided she did not want to eat her lunch. We were at the camp, surrounded by cousins, but she was willfully deciding to clamp that little trap door shut and to open it for no man (or noodle). I assured her that if she did not eat her meal in a timely manner, we would not have time to go swimming with cousins after lunch. Did this matter to her? Not enough apparently.

The only bite she took was the one she shoved in her mouth when I told her that lunch was over and it was time to go home. So I picked her up in my right arm, lifted Tate into my left arm, and we marched the full distance back to the van through her kicking and screaming. I so appreciated the last words of the seasoned mother whose children are now nearly grown, "Great job, Larissa."

Those words rang in my heart as we drove home through tears and apologies. My soon-to-be-preschooler and I chatted when we arrived home about her decision and why we could not swim today. After our discussion, I see the noodles from her one bite upon exit reappear in her mouth. After almost thirty minutes she was was still working on those three noodles.

About ten minutes later, she walks into her brother's room, where I am sorting clothes and announces, "Mommy, you mean to me."

Come again?

I wanted to burst into tears. But through the pain of her words, I gently reminded her that the decision at lunch had been hers, not mine. I reminded her that I wanted the best for her. I wanted to go swimming. Aunt Michelle wanted her to go swimming. Even Cousin Rachel tried the airplane maneuver with the spoon to inspire her to obey. But the choice had been hers.

She left the room.

Next comes nap time. She refused to use the restroom before nap time, which resulted in another major display of anger. Because of the fit, she lost the privilege of coloring before her nap. She sat on the "potty chair" screaming at me. I don't just mean whining. I mean screaming from a hateful heart at me.

When she ran back into the living room and laid down to color, I promptly picked her up and took her to her room. She continued with her theme and just screamed at me. I honestly have a headache from her piercing sounds.

After a few minutes of letting her cry, I re-entered the room, asked her to look me in the eye, and then recited the only thing I could conjure up at the moment. "I love you." I said it again. She apologized for making me sad, and as the tears rolled down my face, I cuddled her. I watched her eyes flutter closed and then open again as she gasped and whimpered herself to sleep.

I came back out to the living room and could only think of one thing.

This is how God must feel.

On some minuscule level, this is how my Creator and Sovereign God must feel when I choose sin over His perfect way. It must wound the heart of my Savior when I opt for my own way and do not trust His grace.

And all that He wants us to understand is that He loves us. In Hosea 2:14, God says, "Therefore, behold, I will allure her, bring her into the wilderness and speak kindly to her."

Come again?

I throw myself on the floor, I accuse Him of not being good to me, and I scream at the top of my lungs at my God sometimes. But I just cannot believe His response. "I will allure her, bring her back...and speak kindly to her."

Oh, how I pray I look like this to my children. I want THAT to be characteristic of me. I want to be consistent in my discipline, but ready to woo them back into relationship and speak kindly.

God, help me to be the mother I cannot be apart from you. Fill me with your love.

Amen.