I love Sunday afternoons. I’m curled up on the couch, clad in my favorite seats and thick socks, reading the Sunday paper. Ahhh— sweet rest.

I land on an article by a freelance writer who is taking care of her daughter’s 90-pound “puppy”. She describes taking the animal outside at 7:00 a.m., dressed in her gray flannel housecoat and rollers in her hair, totally unprepared for what was to happen next. The dog, much stronger than she, suddenly jerks away from the leash, dashes across the street, leaving her on her backside from the unexpected jolt!

She watches helplessly as “Lucy”, (whom she sarcastically refers to as “Lucifer”), races across the street to check out a little ball of white fluff is not withholding his disapproval of Lucy or its temporary guardian, as he finds his legs enmeshed in circle after circle of Lucy’s leash. Not having a clue as to what to do, the woman yells out to the jogger, “It’s not my dog! It’s not my dog!!” Her blame shifting falls on deaf ears, however. The jogger doesn’t care at that moment who the horse-sized dog belongs to. He’s just trying to save his little ball of white fluff!

I’m laughing out loud, picturing this unsightly woman’s dilemma, and totally relating to her embarrassment. My son was hyperactive in the womb, and didn’t slow down for eighteen years. When he was three, I took him into the grocery store and issued an ultimatum.
“If you leave my side for the next ten minutes, I WILL spank you right here.” I warned. Sure enough, three minutes into our shopping trip, he’s outta there. Since this is certainly not the first time, I trek over to the toy aisle, where I find him with a train in his right hand, an airplane in his left, and making all the appropriate noises instinctive to little boys. Wanting to be consistent (that word always surfaces feelings of intense guilt in me), I grab his little arm and escort him to the house wares aisle, yank a wooden spoon off the metal hook, and head toward the ladies’ room. After all, you’re not supposed to shame a child in public, right? However, I pick up the pace very quickly as my precocious five-year-old yells at the top of his lungs,
“You didn’t pay for that spoon! You HAVE to pay for that spoon!”
Whatever happened to the rule that a child is not supposed to shame his parents in public? I couldn’t think of a credible disclaimer, but I really wanted to scream out something like that woman with the dog, “He’s not my kid! He’s NOT my kid!” Brother, the injustices we parents must bear.

I lay down the Sunday paper and let my mind reflect back on other such moments with my fun loving, never-slow-down, fly-by-the-seat-of-your pants kind of kid…and smile. He must have been around six when he stood on the front row of the platform with the rest of his Sunday School department, performing their special Christmas program. Suddenly, right in the middle of the softest, sweetest song, Justin starts to scratch. He bends down, scratches his ankle once, stands back up and begins to sing again, then starts the process all over. This time the itch is higher, so he proceeds to roll up his pant leg so he can get to it easier! By this point, no one is listening to “What Child Is This”. They’re all wondering WHOSE child is this and is it lice or fleas? The process continues until he’s reaching up past his knee, scratching away. Our pastor, who was sitting directly in back of my husband and me, leaned forward and said, “I’m just hoping that itch doesn’t get any higher!” He had no idea how hard I was praying for a quick cut-off point. At the end of the program, (which seemed like fifteen years instead of fifteen minutes), the children’s minister asked all the parents to please stand up so the kids could locate them. My husband and I looked at each other, shook our heads, and kept our seats. Of course, our little guy found us immediately, and the entire church shook with laughter. So did we.

When he was sixteen, we had a “mom and son day” and went to the mall. Those are rare, because teenagers would rather die than be seen with their mother at the mall, of all places. The joke was on me, however, as I turned to point out something in a store window. He had removed his baseball cap, revealing a head full of spray-painted purple hair! Now who would rather die? The faster I tried to walk away from him, the louder he yelled, “Mama, don’t disown me. Mama! You said you’d always love me, Mama!” On and on…I had to choose between “embarrassing” and “more embarrassing”, so we walked the mall arm in arm. (At least he wasn’t yelling.)

He’s twenty-two now and lives in his own apartment. Those stories that brought me such embarrassment back then are a source of joy and pride to me today. Amazing how a parent’s perspective changes over the years. So here I am stretched out on my comfy couch on Sunday afternoon, and I have another thought. A less humorous thought. A thought of One who is never embarrassed by my outlandish behavior. Of One who would never even consider yelling out, “She’s not mine!” Of One who would never walk away after hearing the voice of his child cry out.

And I don’t feel condemned by this thought.
Just grateful. So inexpressibly grateful.
That no matter how many times I foul things up, I’m welcome to walk with him.
That even when I’ve thoroughly disappointed even myself, he loves me. I belong to him.

As I rise from my place of comfort to fix dinner for my family, I hear these words, “Fear not for I have redeemed you. I have called you by name, you are MINE.”

I love Sunday afternoons, and this one has been an especially good one.

I was completely alone, but never so conscious of not being alone. Paradoxical, I know.

It was early morning. I had slipped out of the bed and breakfast, where my husband and I were vacationing in Mendocino, California. The cool morning was too inviting to sleep away, so I grabbed my jacket and hiked up a mountain that overlooked the ocean. What an amazing sight. » Continue Reading