{"id":3072,"date":"2012-03-29T06:00:52","date_gmt":"2012-03-29T11:00:52","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/mamamonk.com\/?p=3072"},"modified":"2012-03-29T06:00:52","modified_gmt":"2012-03-29T11:00:52","slug":"let-them-tell-this-story-she-was-always-being-remade","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.patheos.com\/blogs\/michaboyett\/2012\/03\/let-them-tell-this-story-she-was-always-being-remade\/","title":{"rendered":"Let them tell this story: She was always being remade"},"content":{"rendered":"\n<\/head>

Photo by the amazing and lovely Erin Molloy Photography<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/p>

I\u2019m a stressed mom. I\u2019m stressed too often. I worry that August\u2019s most prominent memory of his childhood will be my contorted anxiety face leaning over his carseat, snapping at him and plugging his seatbelt in tight. Sometimes he asks me, \u201cMama, are you stressed?\u201d Sometimes he tells Chris when he comes home: \u201cMommy was really stressed today.\u201d<\/p>\n

Oh, how I hate that. That is not the story I want for my boys\u2019 childhood. Sweet Lord<\/em>, I beg from my gut, unweave that story. Put a new one in its place\u2026<\/em><\/p>\n

Tuesday, when were running late to dinner with some relatives I haven\u2019t seen in years, I felt panic missile-blast (to use my son\u2019s lingo) my insides when August wouldn\u2019t hurry into his seat. He was crouched on the floorboard of the back seat, refusing to climb in. I yelled. I slammed my bag into the passenger seat. I sighed as if my sweet, wide life was oppressive, as if these children had made me late. (The truth: I was never on time before I had children. It\u2019s almost always not their fault; it\u2019s mine.) I called my husband as I pulled out the driveway, saying we were late and I was so frustrated that my relatives would have this impression of me, The Late Person<\/em>. Mostly, I just talked at a high pitch and made the \u201cUgh!\u201d noises Chris has come to expect from my late afternoon phone calls.<\/p>\n

He sighed: \u201cWell, Mama Monk, what are you going to do about it?\u201d And I groaned. How dare he play that card, like I\u2019m actually supposed to practice what I talk about around here? I hung up and drove tapping my hand on the steering wheel for a few blocks while August\u2019s sweet voice was singing along to the cd. I was completely unable to hear the miracle of that boy\u2019s voice, the glory of a 3-year-old\u2019s vocal chords vibrating rhythm and melody.<\/p>\n

We stopped at the light and I squeezed my mind tight enough to hear August\u2019s song, long enough to consider Chris\u2019 words. Then I thought about all of you. The light turned green. I prayed, turning the corner onto the access road by Mopac.<\/p>\n

I prayed: Lord, Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me a sinner<\/em>.<\/p>\n

I prayed the words over and over until my mouth was sighing Lord, Lord, Lord<\/em>.<\/p>\n

And, miraculously, my heart pounded strong and matched the sound of my little boy\u2019s voice behind me. I widened my eyes and the world was open again. The tunnel walls fell down and light shimmied in and I breathed. Wow, Jesus<\/em>, I thought. This time, you fixed me fast<\/em>.<\/p>\n

And that\u2019s true. God is healing me, I know. I know it because each time the slick black slime seeps through my mind and down onto my tongue and slides through my arms and legs to drag me into the dark tunnel, I\u2019m remembering more and more quickly that the tunnel is not my home. The dark slime does not have a bed in my brain anymore. All of this life\u2013the beauty of Brooksie\u2019s chubby legs waddling down the sidewalk, the glory of the budding vines in the backyard, the patter of the rain outside my window\u2013all of it has the potential<\/a> to break me open into the light and soft curve of God\u2019s goodness.<\/p>\n

So, maybe the stressed mom will be the story my boys tell. But, right alongside it, let them tell of the mom who prayed in the car, her left hand on the steering wheel, her right lifted out, offering her broken spirit.<\/p>\n

Let them say, She was broken<\/em>. Let them say, She was always being remade\u2026<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n<\/body><\/html>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I\u2019m a stressed mom. I\u2019m stressed too often. I worry that August\u2019s most prominent memory of his childhood will be my contorted anxiety face leaning over his carseat, snapping at him and plugging his seatbelt in tight. Sometimes he asks me, \u201cMama, are you stressed?\u201d Sometimes he tells Chris when he comes home: \u201cMommy was […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1005,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[16],"tags":[22,39,71,104,121],"class_list":["post-3072","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-the-praying-life","tag-anxiety","tag-crazy-mother","tag-hope","tag-present-moment","tag-spiritual-practice"],"yoast_head":"\nLet them tell this story: She was always being remade - Micha Boyett<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"I'm a stressed mom. I'm stressed too often. 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