Actual conversation in my house this morning. Before caffeine or centering prayer.
Child who lives here, “MOM! Someone took my short, black socks that were tucked inside my shoes.”
Mom-trying-to-wake-up-and-channel-the-patience-of-Jesus, “Like who? Which shoes? When?”
Child, “I dunno, but they were there, and someone took them.”
Mom, “Bud, no one else wears those type of socks. I highly doubt someone broke into our house this morning, while you were brushing your teeth, to steal your coveted socks. Go look in your drawer or the pile of clean laundry on the couch.”
While throwing clean clothes all around the couch, “Nope, they aren’t here. Someone took them.”
Child finds another pair of short, black socks and heads to school. Twenty minutes later, mom finds the socks on the kitchen table, where he left them. Text a photo to the child of irritation, for him reply, “What are those?” At that moment I was just thankful he was at school, under the protection of his principal, as I wanted to gently wring the bones in his cute little neck.
Bless my soul. Bless your Momma soul, since I’m pretty sure this type of conversation happened all over the globe this glorious morning. Today, I am completely over my bratty children. Tonight, I will gush over how precious they are. This is Motherhood- the real kind, a perfect balance of adorable and frustrating. A combination of zealous, superhuman love for the darlings and a continuous prayer line of inquires, and the occasionally begging of patience. Parenting is a love so big that it requires the grounding of both feet just to manage it.
My darlings refer to me by several names; Mom, Momma, Mother Dear, Madre, and Brooke. I don’t particularly care what they call me, just as long as I get to hear their sweet voices. And that it is respectful, let’s be clear. Momma’s not raising thugs. I don’t necessarily need one politically correct title, this job is too important to be limited to one name.
I think God feels the same. Father, Abba, Most High, Highest Power, Yaheweh, Jehovah, the Alpha & Omega, and so many more. I think God would rather have our hearts reach for Him, than to have us tangled up in the specifics and rules. God is into simplicity, and is too big to be packaged in just one name. I don’t believe He cares which name from the list that we use, just as long as we call him.
I use Creator a lot, the thought of the Divine creating me to be exactly Autumn Brooke, is soothing to my heart. On hard days, it’s also restoring to my soul. I won’t pretend to understand the adult acne added into the package, but whatever.
A few years ago, my mind was flooded with uncertainty and questions. This doubt was so unsettling that I drove two hours north to discuss it with the pastor from our “home” church. I loved belonging to that church, something about entering those doors brought me a wave of peace.
I recently found the list of questions I took to the pastor. Not that it was missing, as I’ve kept that paper tucked in my bible bag since that meeting. The list resembles questions that perhaps a kindergartener might ask. I got down to the basics and worked my way up. He patiently answered my queries, never making me feel guilty for my doubt. One answer he gave calmed my qualms and infused my faith, “I don’t know, but I’m kinda glad I can’t fully explain God and his mysteries.” He went on to explain if God was a force that could be explained completely, then we would be able to put him in a box. If we could understand everything about Him then we would know as much or more than He does. Who wants to learn from someone that knows less than you do? Who wants a Creator who can be bottled like a genie?
Not this girl. As much as I loved dreaming of Jeannie and her master, I want a larger, most divine Master Designer. With this in mind, I think I’m okay with not having all the answers. I’m content being a small part of this grand plan. Even on the days that I collect more questions than answers, I believe that God is okay with my questions, frustrations, and sorrows. Even my anger. I’ve even been known to throw up a prayer asking Him to please help me find my lost keys (aka short, black socks). He is gracious enough answer without an eye roll, and will gently lead me to exactly where I left them. Usually in the car.
He can handle it. Because I am conversing with Him. Talking and listening, giving and receiving. It’s a relationship. He can handle our words and labels, as long as He gets to hear our sweet voices and have our hearts. Call Him what you will, just call Him beloved.
