When I was at primary school we were brought into the kitchen at some point in December and we stirred a cake mixture and were encouraged to make a wish. I wish to wash. I wash to wish, Imagine if whilst washing all the wishes came true! I still wish everytime I wash, I wish I was wshing in hot water but that is a whole other story.
I guess it’s because I am still sore but feeling a bit wished and washed today. Teenage hormones are ruling the roost as usual and I keep wanting to just butt out. Being told number three was AWOL earlier from a summer camp made me embarrassed primarily. I apologised for the inconveniece to the tutor but I figured he is old enough to make these decisions.
His friend’s mom was not quite as laid back and ranted down the phone so much she had me shaking. I don’t think of myself as particularly wishy washy. I learned at the knee of my mother how to cut someone off at the throat, how to use my eyes to bring grown men to tears and to generate chilling atmosphere on tap. I learned all these things and have spent my entire life trying to undo the learning.
Yes, I can do those things but I don’t. Every now and then life gets on top of me and I explode over something really stupid because I don’t confront in a time appropriate manner. Generally though I have the same personality inside and outside of the house, I don’t have a personality transplant on my travel over the mountain to church. I am just me.
My very special person is the only one who knows my eyes can cut right to the heart and he hasn’t seen them at work since the last brawl I was involved in circa 1986 The Limit, Sheffield (am I immature if I still smile knowing I won – yes but am still a bit smug about it cos he was six foot two and a bit handy – in the English sense.) I softened a bit being a wife and then softened a lot when I became a mother.
It was not until I felt the power of the Spirit descend on me turning all the hards into softs that I truly became soft but not wishy washy. Soft in judgement so even though my fourteen year old has told me he hates me, does not love me and wants to burn down my house I still tell him I love him, not just tell him but really do love him, as a son, as a relative, as a memory of the friendship we had, as a human, as a young man and and as a child under the protection of God.
I have been through this before with other children, with other relatives on both sides of the equation and I have seen parents walk away from me because it was too hard to hang in there until I got over the angst, I have followed teenagers who have said “you don’t care about me I might as well be dead”, I have sat with a suicider enabling them by being with them and not actively stopping them, I have called ambulances and social services and psychiatric services.
Have I given my children too much information by telling them about the drug dealers, the guns, the child abuse of all kinds in their parental families. Should I not have told them about how we got to be the people we were when we became parents.
We have to give our children at some point the freedom to make their own decisions and their own victories and their own mistakes. I am watching our family over the water with at least one drug dealer and one receiver of stolen goods and being thankful that so far my children are not involved in anything illegal.
Romans 6:23 For the wages of sin is death, but the free gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.
John 3:16 For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life.
Ephesians 2:8-9 For by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God, not a result of works, so that no one may boast.