Multitude Mondays: When Our Dreams for Our Children are Too Small…

She’d invited me to share her umbrella as we’d stood on the sideline of a soggy soccer field.

I wasn’t expecting deep conversation, just a place to huddle ’til the rain slowed.

 But her heart was heavy that day and my ears were available.

So we’d cupped hot mugs of coffee in mittened hands and swapped small talk while our girls chased a black and white ball across the puddled green.

We’d spoken of family and carpooling, of children and church until our conversation had turned to summer plans.

Her firstborn had been invited to join a mission trip to Haiti.

She wanted him to go.

But her husband didn’t understand why his son couldn’t just serve Christ a little closer to home.

Save the expense. Avoid the danger. Steer clear of the mess.

Teardrops had pooled in her dark chocolate eyes as the soccer mom beside me grappled for words.

I just want my son to understand that God’s world is big. 

So much bigger than this. 

She’d swept her hand across the tidy soccer field, opened her arms to encompass the freshly-planted farmer’s fields that flanked the lush green hill where we stood.

He’s a good boy, she’d murmured, smiling as she spoke of her firstborn.

He has so much to give……. has so much to learn….. 

She’d shrugged her shoulders,
But his father doesn’t see the value, doesn’t know why we’d pay thousands of dollars to send our son to an unsafe place to be confronted with a problem that will never be fixed.

She’d kicked a clump of wet grass and dropped her eyes to the ground.

My husband says that my son can’t change poverty.

And maybe he’s right….

She’d grown quiet, and I’d put my arm around her shoulder, swallowed hard to push down my own tears.

The girls had scored to tie the game and we’d cheered louder than the pattering raindrops.

My hands had clapped in noisy applause, while my lips had prayed silently for the mom beside me.

And for her husband.

And for the son whom they both loved.

And then I’d thought about my own son and the dreams I’ve dreamed for him.

And remembered the night when I’d realized that my dreams for him were too small 

It was the night when he’d called from Honduras to tell me he was falling in love.

He hadn’t used those words exactly, but I had recognized that excitement in his voice, had heard the joy rising above the cackle of roosters and the hum of our poor phone connection.

He was in love….

In love with the children he’d played with in the dirt.

In love with the orphans he’d held in his arms.

In love with the One who had become poor so that we could become rich (Phil.2).

And as I’d listened, I’d known he was being changed. One gaping need at a time.

I hadn’t sent him to Honduras for a heart overhaul.

I’d just wanted to give him a glimpse of life beyond our pretty town, had hoped that if my son came face to face with true need, he might see more clearly his own blessings.

But he had seen theirs. 

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.-matthew 5:3

He had seen the sparkle in the orphan’s eye and the gratitude in the barefooted child’s grin. 

And he had recognized fullness in the face of such nothingness.

He had been disturbed by injustice, but surprised by grace; saddened by lack but amazed by joy. 

He had hugged the hopeless and held the hurting, laughed with the least of these and played ball with the downtrodden.

And he had wondered why he had so much while others had so little.

So from a thousand miles away my son had called to thank me—

To thank me for making supper each night and for washing his clothes every day.

To thank me for driving him to basketball practices and drum lessons and school when he missed the bus.

 And for stocking the freezer with double berry ice cream even in the middle of winter.

And I’d held the phone with trembling hands and wondered what kind of seeds God was planting in the soil of my thirteen-year-old’s heart. 

And how those seeds might grow him into a man.

By the time the final whistle blew, the spring rain had turned the soccer field muddy and brown; had soiled the girls’ uniforms to match.

The raindrops had slowed and the sun was fighting to peek through the gloom, so I’d thanked my umbrella mate for keeping me dry, and waved at my sopping soccer star.

Then, just before we’d trudged across the swampy grass to the parking lot, I’d turned back to give that mom one more hug.

And to gently speak the words that had been blistering my heart,

“Your son might not be able to change poverty…
But poverty just might change your son.”


Still counting….

1267. S’mores cooked on our homemade solar oven
1268. A game of family four-square on the driveway
1269. A Sunday afternoon to myself- a Diet Coke, a lawn chair, and a good book
1270. Rob’s “yes” to spending the hot afternoon with Luke on the frisbee golf course
1271. Bags packed for camp, sitting by the door.
1272. A God who speaks
1273. Josh curled up beside me in my bed- “My heart hurts today. I think I need the Word, Mommy.”
1274. Raindrops splattered on the cement
1275. Roasting hotdogs over an open fire.
1276. Giggly girls tenting out on the trampoline
1277. Stars blazing bright in the velvet black sky

Linking again in community with Ann and these lovely grace seekers:  l.l. for on, in, and around mondays, laura for playdates with god, ruth at the better mom, and jen for soli deo gloria