So, Justin Bieber was arrested...finally. Over the past few weeks Bieber's actions have been followed and questioned and now, much to the media's delight, he has had his mug shot plastered all over every major news website.
I am not a Justin Bieber fan. In fact, I don't even know if I would recognize his music. Yes, I am that out of it. The closest run-in I've had with Justin Bieber is when Smurfette (I so wish I were joking) passed us on the sidewalk in Manhattan, and said, "Hi, Justin Bieber!" to my 20-year-old longish haired Caleb. (Caleb has been cutting his hair more often ever since.)
But even Justin Bieber has something to teach us. The paparazzi has been following him around waiting, just waiting for him to screw up, for their I-told-you-so to be justified.
In my house, I AM the paparazzi. I have the ability to spot and replay my kids' mistakes over and over if it suits my purposes or serves as family entertainment. As parents, we sometimes do that to our kids, don't we?
In fact, so certain am I of their pending infractions and annoyances, sometimes I sigh as 3:30 p.m. nears, knowing that they are almost home. My tranquil home is about to become Grand Central Station.
I'm about to be followed around by Biruk, who drills me with questions: "What is that? Why? How many does that cost?" Tadesse gives me a rundown of everything that happened today, while my brain struggles to keep up and fill in the empty spaces his English has not filled. Elijah tells me his funny stories, cracking up all the while, while I sometimes think, You know, Sweetheart, that story is not that funny.
Dishes break. Four pairs of boots and shoes are in the foyer, not the closet. Middle son of the three needs to feed the dog. Cereal and milk are spilled. The TV is turned on too loud. One pushed the wrong buttons on the WiiU and now it isn't working correctly. Our wireless network is down, and someone (named Mom) needs to fix it. Oldest still needs to take out the garbage. Two have spelling tests tomorrow. All three need showers. I need to sign two assignment notebooks. Everyone is hungry. Youngest needs to sweep the floor (watch out for the cereal mess). Everyone is hungry again. "Mom! Mom! Mom!" they yell...from three different places in the house.
My patience comes to an end.
My I-told-you-so is justified.
And then I hear a belly laugh from the boy watching Tom and Jerry in the kitchen, and I catch a glimpse of the youngest riding the next youngest, horsey-style, in the family room.
Nerf gun bullets are everywhere.
My laundry baskets are overflowing.
My dishwasher cannot keep up, and my groceries are still only half put away from today's shopping trip.
And none of it matters.
Smack dab in the midst of the chaos, I figure out that I am right where I need to be. I figure out that I can handle tantrums and homework and another sack lunch packed with peanut butter Cheerios not because I am a grace-filled woman, but because I serve a grace-filled God.
And that, my friends, is what it feels like to be content, to know that I am where I am supposed to be and that I can be who I need to be for them, for myself, and for Him.
I am not a Justin Bieber fan. In fact, I don't even know if I would recognize his music. Yes, I am that out of it. The closest run-in I've had with Justin Bieber is when Smurfette (I so wish I were joking) passed us on the sidewalk in Manhattan, and said, "Hi, Justin Bieber!" to my 20-year-old longish haired Caleb. (Caleb has been cutting his hair more often ever since.)
But even Justin Bieber has something to teach us. The paparazzi has been following him around waiting, just waiting for him to screw up, for their I-told-you-so to be justified.
In my house, I AM the paparazzi. I have the ability to spot and replay my kids' mistakes over and over if it suits my purposes or serves as family entertainment. As parents, we sometimes do that to our kids, don't we?
In fact, so certain am I of their pending infractions and annoyances, sometimes I sigh as 3:30 p.m. nears, knowing that they are almost home. My tranquil home is about to become Grand Central Station.
I'm about to be followed around by Biruk, who drills me with questions: "What is that? Why? How many does that cost?" Tadesse gives me a rundown of everything that happened today, while my brain struggles to keep up and fill in the empty spaces his English has not filled. Elijah tells me his funny stories, cracking up all the while, while I sometimes think, You know, Sweetheart, that story is not that funny.
Dishes break. Four pairs of boots and shoes are in the foyer, not the closet. Middle son of the three needs to feed the dog. Cereal and milk are spilled. The TV is turned on too loud. One pushed the wrong buttons on the WiiU and now it isn't working correctly. Our wireless network is down, and someone (named Mom) needs to fix it. Oldest still needs to take out the garbage. Two have spelling tests tomorrow. All three need showers. I need to sign two assignment notebooks. Everyone is hungry. Youngest needs to sweep the floor (watch out for the cereal mess). Everyone is hungry again. "Mom! Mom! Mom!" they yell...from three different places in the house.
My patience comes to an end.
My I-told-you-so is justified.
And then I hear a belly laugh from the boy watching Tom and Jerry in the kitchen, and I catch a glimpse of the youngest riding the next youngest, horsey-style, in the family room.
Nerf gun bullets are everywhere.
My laundry baskets are overflowing.
My dishwasher cannot keep up, and my groceries are still only half put away from today's shopping trip.
And none of it matters.
Smack dab in the midst of the chaos, I figure out that I am right where I need to be. I figure out that I can handle tantrums and homework and another sack lunch packed with peanut butter Cheerios not because I am a grace-filled woman, but because I serve a grace-filled God.
And that, my friends, is what it feels like to be content, to know that I am where I am supposed to be and that I can be who I need to be for them, for myself, and for Him.
