The Crayon-Box Miracle
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| Today I’m delighted to be participating with Hearts at Home in sharing about the miracles in our lives. “Hearts at Home seeks to encourage, equip, and educate every mom in every season of motherhood using Christian values to strengthen families.” I hope that this glimpse of our miracle-working God encourages you today!
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“Mom?” my seven–year–old asked as we closed the juice–stained pages of her children’s Bible and lingered together in the big leather chair where we love to begin our day. “Do you think God still does miracles?”
As our morning story of Lazarus danced across my mind, my eyes landed on the crayon box that had been abandoned on the nearby coffee table. A rainbow of crayons lie scattered between piles of half–read magazines and yesterday’s newspaper. I tenderly stroked my daughter’s back through her pink satin nightgown, leaned my head close to hers and whispered, “I know God still works miracles, Hannah. ‘Cause I’m one of them!” My third–born locked her shimmering eyes with mine and nodded in quiet understanding. “You’re right, Mom. We’re really all miracles when you think about it!”
I smiled at her simple faith and let the conversation rest. Someday I would tell her about my own miracle of resurrected hope, perhaps someday when she was a mother, too. I glanced once again at the green and gold crayon box, and remembered with wordless gratitude. . .
From the moment I cradled my first baby doll with sleepy eyes and pouty pink lips, I’d longed to be a mommy.
A little girl in love with babies, I asked for one each Christmas until I grew old enough to understand that Santa couldn’t help me and young enough to believe that my parents would never want to do that to give me one.
Once I stopped checking beneath the tree, I shifted my hope to the day when I’d have babies of my own. The particulars of my dream changed as often as my juvenile moods, but one detail remained. Whatever else I ambitioned to do, I wanted motherhood to be a part of the picture.
At the age of twenty–six, my Christmas wish came true! My firstborn son stormed the world with a beautiful howl, a wrinkled red face, and a smashed pink nose. I thought he was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. As the doctor placed the soft bundle in my arms, life as I knew it slipped away like the slippery remains of my unneeded placenta.
In the beginning, I loved everything about motherhood– the new depths of love that claimed my soul, the soothing rhythm of the rocking chair in the quiet of night, the melody of happy coos that slid from my little one’s lips, and the unexpected bond of awe that I shared with my husband. Motherhood was all I’d imagined it might be and more.
But eventually, the baby gifts stopped cramming the mailbox, the streams of visitors diminished, and our diaper–laden budget sapped our Friday–night take–out fund. Laundry piles mounted. Exhaustion multiplied, and the novelty of self–denial grew wearisome. I fantasized about taking a shower before noon, going to the bathroom alone, and savoring an uninterrupted conversation with my husband.
I missed date nights and Saturday morning sleep-ins. I missed long walks with girlfriends and stimulating banter with cohorts. And I missed spending time with the Lord. Mornings that had once begun with Bible study and prayer were now consumed by red–eyed feedings and washing machine duty. No matter what time of day I picked up my Bible, my good intentions ended in an unplanned snooze. Focused prayer was a luxury of the past. Intimate conversations with my Maker were reduced to meager cries for help as the demands of mommy–hood mystified me.
As Luke teetered on the edge of the terrible twos and our second child danced in my womb, I studied other moms in the grocery store and wondered if they felt as dissatisfied as me. I watched women chasing their children through the park and longed to know if their smiles reached their hearts. Deep down, did they feel empty, too?
Guilt stalked me like the stray cat I’d foolishly fed as a little girl. I felt guilty for wanting what I no longer had, guilty for not appreciating what I’d so graciously been given. Late at night, when the toddler babble ceased and the child in my womb succumbed to stillness, I wrestled with the gritty questions of my soul: What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I just be content? And most disturbing of all, Why don’t I love being a mom?
One bitter winter’s day, I finally put voice to my disenchantment. Blizzard winds had left me house-bound with two restless children and a waning dose of patience. By mid–morning my creativity had fizzled. Books and toys littered the walkways. Remains of a gooey craft lay abandoned on the kitchen table. Four–month–old Elizabeth fussed in the baby swing while my toddler completed his daily mission to dismantle every shelf within reach.
Beyond the window, a bulky school bus plodded over the dingy street. I considered begging the driver to take me with him, or at least one of my kids, but pride restrained my impulse. Surely the neighbors would know I was unhappy if they watched me hitchhike out of the neighborhood on a big yellow vehicle.
Mop rag in hand, I crawled under the table to clean up the remnants of our early morning art time. My unexpected tears added one more puddle to the sticky linoleum. I wished I had hopped the bus. Then I wished I were a mommy who didn’t want to. That’s when I saw the empty box.
The crayon box was nothing out of the ordinary; just a traditional gold box with the words “My First Crayons” splashed in chunky green letters across the front. However, in the aftermath of the morning’s activity, not a single crayon remained in its rightful home. The unexpected sight of stark gray cardboard where a rainbow of color should have been made my stomach lurch. It reminded me of my heart. Before I could stop myself, I grabbed the box from its landing place and gave voice to my discouraged soul.
“Do you remember my dream?” I asked as I shook the limp cardboard heavenward. “I thought motherhood would be different. Happier. More fun. More fulfilling. . . .”
I grappled to articulate my girlhood fantasy; then I spied the chunky child–sized crayons beneath the high chair. “I thought it would be colorful, Lord. But I feel like this box. Empty. And gray.”
When my words ran dry, no mighty voice thundered from above.
No burning bush appeared in the corner of my filthy kitchen.
The only response to my candid confession was the tinny click–clack of the baby swing where my fussing daughter had succumbed to sleep. Depleted, I rounded up the loose crayons and crept from beneath the table. Unexpectedly, a memory verse I had learned as a child ran through my mind— “I have come to give you life and give it to the full” (John 10:10)—followed by God’s gentle whisper. “I can fill your life with color if you’ll let Me.”
Once God had tantalized my soul with the promise of more, I prepared for a dramatic revolution. Ready to leave empty–box–motherhood behind, I waited for the miracle that would change my daily reality. Still, laundry piles continued to mount and my teething baby continued to cry. Lord? Did I hear you right? I’m looking for my new life of color, but I haven’t seen it yet.
“Who said that your children were created to fill your soul?” God tenderly challenged. “Is that somewhere in my Word?”
Late at night while my family slumbered, I thumbed through the pages of my memory and tried to formulate an answer.
When my fresh-from-the-womb firstborn had been placed into my trembling arms, had the doctor promised joy? It’s a boy! Seven lbs 7 oz. — just the size you need to fill that hole in your heart! No, even my wise physician had never once prescribed my children as a tonic for discontent. Yet, centuries ago, a philosopher named Pascal had acknowledged the hole in my heart; a God-shaped hole to be exact.
Over time, I realized that God’s pledge beneath the kitchen table did not rest on the pendulum of my children.
He had not proposed my children as the happy hues that would brilliantly color my soul. He had proffered Himself.
“I can fill your life with color if you’ll let me.” I had no idea where I was headed, but I knew I must leave some baggage behind. With a prayer of surrender, I laid down my bulging bag of mommy expectations and asked God for a new bundle, the knapsack of truth that would lead me to the radiant colors of contentment.
That was a decade ago.
Today, five children and one dozen years into my journey of motherhood, I am still filling that knapsack of truth. Though my life as a mom is just as muddled and gooey as the toddler craft that drove me under the table on one long-gone blizzardy day, it is no longer empty like the crayon box beneath the mess.
True to His word, the Painter of the sunrise has colored my life with joy.
He has not erased every shade of gray, but He has added endless hues of hope.
Lazarus’ empty tomb may point dramatically to a God of wonders, but this mommy’s empty–no–more heart points to the same Miracle Maker, not in one breath-taking moment of drama, but in countless moments of humble transformation, one dish–washing–diaper–changing– dirty–face–scrubbing-day at a time.
The Overflow: “I have come to give you life, life, and more life!”
-John 10:10, The Message
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Thanks so much for sharing your story! I think so many of us have been at that point – I had always dreamed of being a stay-at-home Mom, and had some very hard days – OK, months or maybe even years – when I was frustrated, disillusioned, and angry. Stepping out of the world’s version of success and devoting your day to a squalling, needy infant is very humbling, and God used that to show me just how selfish I was. Whatever journey we’re one, whether being a mother is included or not, we won’t find happiness and rest unless we’ve turned it all to Him!
(And I love the image of the crayon box – when I see them now they will serve as a reminder that HE needs to fill me with colors!)
I love a good story of a human, flawed mother being transformed by God. I know those early years are some of the toughest–I’ve read some of my journals from that time and shared similar feelings. But along with you, Alicia, I have experienced God’s steady love, joy and provision. That’s a great miracle!
Thanks for all the reminders that this journey called mom-hood is not a solo endeavor. What fun to meet so many “new friends” today through the blog hop.
Blessings to each of you-
I appreciate the glismpse into your heart and life. I can relate, and I pray God continues to bless you on the journey.
Blog-hopping: http://creative-joy.blogspot.com
Thank you for touching my heart today. I COMPLETELY identify with your phrase “one dish–washing–diaper–changing– dirty–face–scrubbing-day”, so this has been a real blessing to read!
Oh my do I ever relate to that empty feeling. Along with the toddler messes, dirty diapers, a dirty faces! With 4 kids (2-8) I’ve SO been there, and probably will be again. Thanks for the reminder that joy and contentment comes from God and not my children.
Thank you for the reminder that happiness must come from within.