Living With Open Eyes: The Worst Mother Ever!

I, therefore, the prisoner of the Lord, beseech you to walk worthy of the calling with which you were called, with all lowliness and gentleness, with longsuffering, bearing with one another in love, endeavoring to keep the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace. Ephesians 4:1-3

When my daughter Melodie turned 13 I wanted to have a special party for her. After all, coming into the teen years is a big, big deal. Unfortunately, because of our mission work among the Liberian war refugees, we were living in the interior of the Ivory Coast and that meant our access to Western food was limited. However, I had the supplies for two homemade pizzas and a cake, which I figured would be enough for our missionary team and the two women visiting our small town from their North Africa ministries.

As people started gathering for the party Melodie mentioned she had invited several Liberians to join the group. As I quizzed her it became apparent she had invited more people than we had food to serve. I quickly found Mark and asked him to go to the market immediately and buy some African "cook shop" food. He looked at me doubtfully, but when I insisted he left to do my bidding.

By the time Mark returned the crowd had arrived and the party was in full swing. Relieved I now had enough food, I threw the rice and sauce into two bowls and placed them on the table near the pizzas. After Mark formally greeting the guests and asked God's blessing on the food and the birthday girl, people lined up to serve themselves what they assumed would be delicious food. I joined the line, where I chatted with the missionary guest. Stepping up to the table, I placed some pizza on my plate. My guest looked down at the bowls and then up at me quizzically. "Do you know what that is?" she asked.

"No," I answered. I looked down at the dark brown sauce with the sausage-like meat floating in it and started to feel uneasy.

"That's tripe," she said with the certainty of someone who knew.

"What's tripe?" I asked. I strongly suspected the answer would not make me happy.

"Intestines."

Oh, mercy. I shrunk back in horror. I had served the intestines of some unknown jungle animal at my daughter's special 13th birthday party. I was officially the worst mother ever!

That happened many years ago and while it may be the single most classless thing I have ever done, it is not the only time I've done something requiring a huge measure of grace be poured out on me. Besides the birthday party blunders—and there have been several—there have been other, more serious, parenting mistakes. I've under-reacted to things my children did that should have been dealt with and over-reacted to other things that should have been left alone. And I sometimes haven't even gotten their names right while doing it. (Through the years it has been a running joke that after naming our firstborn John-Mark, we should have named the others John-Melodie, John-Nathan, John-Heidi and John-Jared because often the name John came out of my mouth before I figured out the real name of the child to whom I was speaking. "You know who you are!" I would say when the child in question would wait to see if I would ever get it right.)

The truth is clear. I need grace. Lots and lots of grace. In fact, with its unlimited number of opportunities on any given day to mess up, I am in trouble. I am so frail. They must bear with me in love, humility and gentleness. My children are frail too. I must respond to them with love, humility and gentleness. It is the key to unity and peace.

Thankfully Melodie was a good sport at that never-to-be-forgotten birthday party. When we looked around and saw our Liberian friends eagerly gobbling up the intestine sauce, she and I both had a good laugh. (Well, a shuddering kind of good laugh.) And, to her credit, Melodie has never once brought up that birthday party and thrown it back in my face.

That grace on Melodie's part warms me all these years later.