On Breaking Things

I never knew just how breakable the world is until I became a mother of boys.  It began with their births, the way my body had to break open to get them out, the stitches and staples and other random office supplies used to piece me back together.  There were a few months to recover, with noisy and greedy nursing being their primary activity each day and the occasional diaper blowout the only mess I had to clean up.  But then they got mobile.  Before their first birthdays they were pulling down the Christmas tree and chewing on books, throwing toys and falling down.  Then there were the shoes that went missing, never a whole pair, but just one shoe gone.  There were toothbrushes flushed down the toilet and bars kicked out of the crib.  There were broken dishes and broken furniture and makeup that was chewed and spit out.  I fully expect that one of these days our house will just collapse in on itself like a dying star from all the breaking.

What a shock to the woman who still has clothes from high school (and middle school), whose books appear pristine after decades of reading, who tenderly places photographs in albums to preserve her memories.  What unexpected chaos and destruction when we added these little monsters people to our family.  We agreed on a saying, "Nothing we buy is worth more than our kids," (also "Never be worth more dead than alive" see A Perfect Murder with Michael Douglas and Gwyneth Paltrow.  These are words to live by, people.), but sometimes I forget that when I see them throwing toys near the tv or playing with my computer.  Money is tight from replacing the essentials, not leaving much to replace our grown-up toys.  Or when a carton of eggs accidentally (or not so accidentally) gets broken on the kitchen floor and I find myself on hands and knees mopping up goopy membranes and multicolored shells.  Or when a body slams into a wall and a picture comes crashing to the floor, shattering glass and ruining the frame.  Then it seems harder to remember that these little people are the greatest blessing in my life and raising them will be my greatest accomplishment, hands down.

Jesus teaches his followers not to store up treasures where moths and rust can destroy, where thieves can break in and steal.  He should have added a special note for parents:  just don't love any thing because your children will break it.  This includes your body.  This includes their bodies.  Because they are just as careless with themselves as they are with everything else.  They run into walls and trip over imaginary obstacles.  They come within an inch of death on a good day just by moving around and living in this dangerous world.  Perfection and wholeness are not going to be part of our lives as we parent our sons.  There has to be something else, some other treasure worth building.  "But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven....for where your treasure is, there your heart will be also." (Matthew 6:20-21)

What is a heavenly treasure?  How can I acquire something in this life that will be waiting for me on the other side?  That's all Jesus has to say before moving on to other instructions.  He warns people to serve God instead of money and not to worry about what you wear or what you eat.  So here's what I think:  it's not about our stuff, it's about our people.  The purpose of life isn't to build a great house and decorate it with the fashionable and expensive things money can buy.  The purpose of life is to build a home, a place of refuge and protection, a welcome to anyone who passes through the door.  I shouldn't focus on accumulating more stuff, better stuff, because stuff will go out of style (if my kids leave it alone long enough).  I should be collecting people, seeing the hearts beating underneath the clothes and loving the crap out of them.  I should be inviting them over, not worrying about wear and tear on the couch or how much food they will eat.  And I should start with my boys.  Nothing they can break will cost as much as breaking their hearts or breaking their spirits with harsh words and hurtful hands.

So go ahead.  Jump on the couch.  Spill your drink.  Slam the door.  Break a toy.  I will roll my eyes and be thankful that you are here, thankful for each reminder that none of us is perfect.