When You Realize Those Kids Beneath Your Roof Aren’t Really Yours

She’s not yours.

The holy whisper had interrupted my morning regimen a few years ago as I’d cuddled a pajama-clad toddler before sunrise. 

Maggie’s soft sweaty ringlets had tickled my nose while I’d breathed deep her sleepy morning scent. 

And though I usually welcome the voice of wisdom, on that particular day, the invasive words had jolted my soul. 

I’d tried to shove them beneath the secrets and giggles my littlest girl and I were sharing while her siblings slept unaware.

But truth is hard to bury.

 When daybreak’s purple claws ripped through the hovering gray, I’d filled sippy cups and checked back packs, had toasted bagels and prayed over children racing to the bus. 

And for just a moment, those bothersome words had sunk beneath the monotony of grocery shopping and cookie baking;  crouched low beneath the surface of soccer-uniform-washing and math homework helping. 

But they’d refused to stay entombed.

Days later, the insistent notion had mounted above the cacophony at the seventh-grade football game. And despite the noise around me, the familiar echo had risen with the swelling cheers.

He’s not yours.

I’d jumped to my feet to applaud my quick-moving running-back, but the unsettling truth had refused to budge.

 He’s not yours.

I’d clapped louder and tried to ignore the unwelcome obvious, but it had squeezed in the bleachers beside me and tarried until the game’s end.

For weeks, those three simple words had followed me like the stray kitten I’d fed as a little girl.

 I’d tripped over them at the park as my four-year-old tossed hickory nuts against the old tree trunk. 

He’s not yours.

I’d stepped on them in the dark as I’d studied the moonlight-glow that danced across my sleeping seven-year-old’s flushed face.

She’s not yours. 

I’d bumped into them as I’d listened to my eleven-year-old’s candid dinner-time prayer.

She’s not yours.

It’s hard to ignore truth when it is clamoring at your heels.

I’d kicked at it with arguments, swatted it with disgust, and tried my best to simply walk away. But like a persistent feline, one inarguable fact kept landing on my doorstep.

 A Mother’s life is a daily investment in borrowed treasure.

Finally, weary of closing the door, I’d tried a new strategy. 

I’d just invited the truth inside. 

I’d looked it square in the eye as it crossed the threshold of my heart, and I’d spoken the words aloud as I’d gone about my days.

I’d murmured it to no one but myself as I’d folded poke-a-dot panties and superhero briefs.

These kids aren’t really mine.

 I’d said it when I’d wiped fingerprints from the window panes and mopped mud prints off the floor. 

These are borrowed smudges. 

I’d repeated it when I’d tripped over the pile of shoes at the front door.

This clutter belongs to feet on lend. 

And I’d whispered it as I’d savored the sound of laughter slipping under the girls’ bedroom door long after I’d turned off the light. 

That melody is laughter on lease.  

And the funny thing was, the more I’d acknowledged that uninvited truth, the more it had made itself at home in my heart.

Eventually, that very notion that had threatened to topple my sense of security brought me to a place of greater peace.

After all, if my children aren’t mine, then they must belong to Someone.

And if that Someone has arms that will never drop them, then surely, I’d be wise to place my dearest treasures in His hands.

But tell me this: how does one finite mama go about parenting a gracious loan from the Almighty? 

I’d pondered that daunting question for weeks.

And then one morning as I wrestled with the answer, I remembered a time that I’d borrowed a vehicle for a day. My mini-van had been in the shop, so a dear friend had lent me her wheels. 

The kids had teased me incessantly about my slow driving in that borrowed van. 

They’d complained when I’d refused to take the short cut home over gravel, and they’d gasped when I’d chosen the “mega-deluxe wash” treatment at the carwash before we’d returned that van to its rightful owner.

I’d been extra careful with my girl friend’s van because I’d known full well that it wasn’t mine. 

That memory had seeped into my musings as I’d unloaded the dishwasher one afternoon.

 And it had turned my thoughts to the borrowed lives beneath my own roof…

When was the last time I’d handled my children with utmost care because I’d remembered that they are not mine? 

When was the last time I’d slowed my words and refused to cut short our path toward character building in the name of convenience?

 When was the last time I’d chosen to shower my little one’s souls with the mega-deluxe-attention treatment, complete with undivided listening and unhurried play?

When was the last time I’d cupped my children’s tender spirits with patience so I wouldn’t risk shattering a treasure that doesn’t belong to me?

When was the last time that I’d thought about the day when I’ll be asked to return my precious gifts to their Rightful Proprietor?

The questions had raged fast on that day years ago, but living out the answers has taken time.

 One thing is for sure, when I remember that my children are His and not mine, 

I speak more kindly, I pray more boldly, and I worry far less. 

But it’s the remembering that’s hard.

Sometimes I forget, and I still sigh and rant and grumble.

Sometimes, I live as if the kids beneath  my roof belong to me just because we share the same address.

But from the moment those three little words knocked on the door of my soul and demanded that I let them in, I’ve been learning that if I want to unclench my hands, it helps to take off my shoes.

Motherhood is a tread on holy ground. 

And when doubt shimmers aflame within me, and when I want to pull my children close and pretend that they’re all mine,  I’m wise to remember the One who burns with a love that’s greater than my fear. 

It is into the eternal hands of the great I Am that I place my treasures.

And it’s His hands that take mine and lead me gently to this hard and hallowed place of circadian surrender.

So today, I will ask for the courage to place my children where they rightfully belong.

And for as long as I live, I’ll ask for enough faith to leave them there.

Linking up with Rachel for Friday Favorite Things