One Holy Hot Mess. Weekly Reflection by Emily Rutledge

Today my baby turns three.  Both of my children have known nothing besides this church.  It is where they grew inside of me and where they continue to grow despite me. 

I was the best mom I will ever be when I was pregnant for the first time.  My standards were high.  My ideas about discipline and time management were clear.  My intentions for being a calm parent and mindful mom were set.

Then… they arrived.  Some days my goal is to find moments of joy scattered throughout the waking hours. Other days my goal is to not lose my mind at my kids for breathing too loudly.  My well of patience and compassion for parishioners, strangers, and friends is far deeper than the well I draw from for my family.  

Monday was so bad that I had to write a post-it note to myself:

When I was the best mom, pregnant with our first, I imagined what church with littles would be like.  Sweet angel faces in cute dresses and ties saying the Lord’s Prayer as we held hands in our pew. 

Here is a list of the things that have happened in church with my family the past few weeks:

• My son has put his entire hand in the chalice during communion (apologies to everyone after us).
• My daughter has cried and whined for an entire service because she would rather sit with another family (so glad we have friends who are better at life than we are).
• My son has held my face between his hands and screamed at me because I would not let him super-man jump off the alter rail (meanest mom in the world).
• My daughter has asked to go to the restroom no less than 4 times in a 40 minutes (yet she can hold it for hours at any birthday party).
• Both of my children have “starved to death” because we decided to take away snacks during service and their huge breakfast of eggs, toast, fruit, and cereal bars could not sustain their less than 50 pound bodies (insert relentless whining of I’m SOOOOO hungry HERE).
• My son has farted loudly and announced it to the rest of the parish as they processed to communion (you’re welcome).
• During the offering we accidentally didn’t let the toddler touch the plate.  It sounded as if we were sacrificing him Old Testament style and he screamed “I didn’t get it” repeatedly until we took him out of the sanctuary (we now hand it directly to him even if he doesn’t seem to care that day). 
• Last week my son wore a Disney Cars t-shirt to church and both kids wore crocs (because I was too tired to fight and no longer have standards for my children's appearance). 

The only time we hold hands during the Lord’s Prayer is when I am stopping one child from hitting the other. 

My time in worship used to be about holy repentance, reconciliation, and experiencing grace. It is now a time for which I must seek those things out later because of all I’ve done, said, and thought during worship. Worship on Sunday mornings isn’t about me right now.  It's about my kids.  Worship is a three ring circus that I refuse to throw the towel in on because between the crying and whining and dying of hunger my children are learning the truths of God. 

They are walking to the communion rail, holding up their chubby hands, and receiving the bread and wine.  They are asking for Christ… and Christ is being freely given.  They are learning that Jesus is for them. 

They are running down the aisle with their friends to listen to their priests (and sometimes me) preach to them about the never-ending love of God and Her goodness as they play with trucks and dolls and service bulletins.  They are learning that our God takes them as they are, where they are. 

They are playing peek-a-boo, rolling trucks, giving high-fives, and drawing pictures with the people surrounding them. They are learning that there is a great cloud of witnesses who see them, love them, and value them. 

While the recessional hymn has begun to sound like the gates of heaven opening up I still can’t shake the feeling that we are better because of this time.  My children are learning about God, and community, and love; I am learning about letting go.  Letting go of people thinking I’m a calm and in-control mom.  Letting go of what I planned for and accepting what children are actually like.  Letting go of equating behaving to belonging and believing.  When I sit in that pew… frustrated and tired and up to here with it all there are moments… when a mom of teenagers looks lovingly at my toddler clinging to my neck; longing for her babies to be that small again.  When a loud AMEN passes through their small lips and it makes me giggle and well-up.  When another mom, fighting her own battle in her own pew, locks eyes with me across the aisle and we have a moment where we both want to raise our fists in solidarity.  When the parishioner I prayed with about their struggles earlier in the week sees me wading through my own. 

No matter how hard a Sunday is… we are not alone.  We showed up.  So did the others.  We shared the space of where we were collectively that day.  It’s not always pretty.  For me it’s often bathroom runs and whining kids.  For others it’s the empty seat that was once occupied by a loved one.  It’s tired parents of late-to-come-home teenagers. It’s women and men longing for a loud pew like mine.  It’s families of all kinds, sizes, and ages combining to be THE BODY OF CHRIST.  It’s in those harried moments of what worship is for me in this season of life that I am experiencing what it means to be knit in by community and extended radical love exactly where I am. 

Back when I was the perfect mom I had no need for others to raise my perfect children with me.  The mom I am now needs every last one of you… and I would much rather be a mess with my community than perfect all alone.