This morning as I mopped the urine from Jack’s bedroom floor, I realized that one of the best things I’ve learned from my children is that I’m not in control of much.
Not that this was always a good thing. I hated it.
I hated the meltdowns and the lakes of urine, the poop and the rigid routines. Sometimes I still do.
For a long time, I saw my inability to fix the issues with my children as depressing and hateful. There was no solution, only muddling.
But, somewhere, I began to see that being not enough wasn’t a defect.
I don’t remember when I stopped mourning my inability to make things better. It likely came with hindsight, as I began to see the good things disabilities have given to us.
Much like canyons are carved by rivers slowly and steadily washing sediment downstream, time revealed to me that being inadequate is actually a normal human state.
A person who usually has success can develop a self-assured sense of ability and rightness. I guess we call it pride. Sometimes smugness.
But a person whose life often spins out of hand sees that the stuff of life is bigger than she is–that some things can’t be controlled or righted.
It isn’t a matter of weakness or failure. It’s reality, and it has freed me.
Life on earth is beautiful and scary, and you can’t have the beautiful parts without experiencing the scary parts.
I guess the best part is that when everything went pear-shaped and I couldn’t make it better, my own wanting made me prayerful–really wanting and really prayerful.
Jack gave me a gift when he showed me I can’t manage alone, which is what God had been waiting for me to understand.