Scrambled and fried

Saturday was my 41st birthday. My precious 8 year-old daughter decided to cook breakfast for me. Since there was a hot frying pan involved, I stood nearby ready to offer my assistance if needed. I watched as she cracked eggs against the edge of the stove, dripping raw egg all down the front of the oven door. I watched as she buttered the toast on the counter with no plate underneath to catch the crumbs. I watched as she dropped the silverware onto the floor, picked it up, blew on it, and kept on setting the table. She did all these things eagerly and out of love for me, even though she made a huge mess that I needed to clean up afterward.

There were a couple of moments in the kitchen when I was tempted to interfere, to fix her mistakes, to save myself some trouble. She looked at me several times, and I just smiled and encouraged her efforts, all while fighting the urge to correct her methods.

I had a conversation with my cousin last spring that I have pondered for many months. He was sharing with me about the times as a young boy when he asked his parents what they thought - of his projects, or his essay or his friends or whatever he was involved in at the moment. His parents would freely offer an opinion, sometimes positive, but often critical.

All these years later, my cousin realized that he wasn’t really asking their opinion, he was seeking their approval, and when it didn’t come it felt terrible.

After our conversation, I sat down with my kids and asked them if they feel like I withhold my approval. I told them that as a parent, the lines between love and discipline are often parallel, but I know that I don’t always get it right. Then I assured them that I love them NO MATTER WHAT and began to cite various unnecessary examples like, “I’ll love you if you are imprisoned, or change your gender, or get a “D” in Science.” But then I gave them that unspoken hairy eyeball warning look that intimates, “But don’t you dare ever do those things” and they are now developing a variety of tics and twitches.

The idea that God loves me without condition is such a hard one to grasp and yet I lived bathed in grace. I am now 41, and I spent more than half of those years really screwing up, not too mention most of last week. I have egg all down the front of my life, but I suspect that God doesn’t mind cleaning up a mess that was made out of eager love.