At the kitchen sink or counter, cleaning up or dishing up. I hear the voices from the girls' room, always partly listening to know when I'm needed. To step in, to solve a problem, to speak a word of correction or encouragement, to restore order.
My ears prick up when the volume escalates and conversational tones get strident. From the midst of the indeterminate babble I hear a strong declaration, "No, it's only God's!"
Elian. Our not quite four year old philosopher. Getting on the other side of a truth she's been taught to use it for her own ends.
Her sisters had told me this had become her battle cry in the dispute over the use of their things. When they hold back a toy or book or doll she particularly wants to use, she challenges their defense of "It's mine" with "No, it's only God's!"
I was a bit amused when I first heard that she was doing this. It told me that she was listening when we talked about Hebrews 13:16, "Do not neglect to do good and to share what you have, for such sacrifices are pleasing to God." I remind the girls that all that we have is a gift from God, to be enjoyed, yes, but to be held as a sort of stewardship, loosely.
Amused but also challenged.
How do we help her turn the truth back around so that she takes it by the handle and not by the blade, hurting herself as she strengthens her passions?
And then there was the day she used her weapon on me.
The refrigerator magnets that I use to organize the paraphernalia and scraps that organize my brain. Small, brightly colored magnets that resemble thumb tacks without the point. Very tempting to little ones but also a potential choke hazard, so ongoing correction had been countering ongoing disobedience in response to brightly colored temptation.
Papers were once again scattered and disarrayed, and the guilty party came trotting down the hall toward the kitchen with a magnet in her mouth and several in her hand.
Frustration.
"Elian, how many times have I told you not to take down my magnets? You're messing up all of my papers, and Grace could get one in her mouth and choke on it!"
Chiding hardens. I know that, but it's the path of least resistance, and I still sometimes find myself stumbling along its familiar terrain.
Little chin went up, and lash-fringed defiance looked me clear in the eyes. "They're not yours, only God's!"
Her eyes saw mine clearly, and the chin went down a little. "God's AND yours."
Problem was not solved, but I had cause to think, not only about the way I had mishandled correction, but also about the standard I am holding up for the girls. Do I have the same standard for myself? Do I hold the things I call mine loosely? Am I ready to give, to share... whenever?
I assessed my attitude toward
stuff, and I felt that I pretty much practiced what I preached.
Sigh. I forgot for the moment that the label "mine" attaches easily to other than the material.
A few days later brought the question to the forefront again, as I was making up our bed in the long awaited white cotton with eyelet. Freshly laundered mattress pad, pillow covers and cases, blanket, and quilt, all faintly scented with bleach - pleasant to me. I looked forward all day, as I tucked and patted and smoothed the various layers fresh from the dryer, to the pleasure of climbing between all that crisp, clean coolness that evening. When the girls came near in a game they were playing, I reminded them (no doubt much more strongly than usual!) that beds were for resting and quietness, not for playing.
Take your pleasure somewhere else; you're infringing on mine.
My work took me to another part of the house, but shortly I was drawn back down the hall by sounds of hilarity emanating from the bedroom. I rushed back to prevent the thing I feared - girls playing on the freshly made bed - only to find girls playing IN the freshly made bed, bouncing and shouting with laughter between the sheets, every bounce and shout stealing...
my clean,
my crisp,
my cool.
My moment of pleasure.
Again, frustration.
Again, coming down too hard.
And in the moments after the chastised but not truly sorry girls left the room, I took my chastened and truly sorry heart before the LORD, knowing I had labeled something mine and not been willing to share, knowing that I had missed an opportunity to extend grace and in doing so connect with the hearts of my girls.
Had I really considered a mere moment of pleasure more important than guiding my girls' hearts into the love and grace of God?
A fleeting earthbound moment rippling influence into things eternal.
If I had stopped to think, if my vision had been fixed, I would have handled that moment differently.
And I thought more broadly about the things I call mine.
my time
my abilities
my energy
my desires
my goals
my work
my hurts
my struggles
my joys
my fears
my reputation
my relationships
my family.
With sobered awareness, it occurred to me that the problem begins with the label, with calling things mine that are really not.
The earth is the LORD's and the fullness thereof,
the world and those who dwell therein,
for He has founded it upon the seas
and established it upon the rivers.
Psalm 24:1
I need to take to my very heart the truth that I am not my own. That I have been bought with a price. That my treasure is not here.
Whom have I in heaven but you?
And there is nothing on earth that I desire besides you.
Psalm 73:25
I pray for the grace to be ready to give, to share ...
whenever, whatever, with
whomever for the sake of Christ. I want to live remembering, and embodying, His words, "And whoever gives one of these little ones even a cup of cold water because he is a disciple, truly, I say to you, he will by no means lose his reward." (Matt. 10:42)
When I think in terms of "mine", I have the anxiety that goes along with holding on, with taking care. When I remember that all of these things belong to Him who made me, loved me, died for me, and is healing me, I can rest, hands open, knowing that HE is holding on, HE is taking care.
And when my heart is tempted to grab on and hang on and His Spirit within me eases my hand open, I thank Him for the freedom as I say to myself with the determination of a not quite four year old, "No! It's only God's!"
Only God's.
