Where's My "Happily Ever After"?

I had a day last week that made me consider turning in my parent card.  

I clearly don't know what I am doing with these kiddos.

After 13 years of mothering, shouldn't there be things I no longer have in my home?  

Like blatant disregard for my instructions?  Direct, habitual disobedience?  Lack of respect? Feigned ignorance of oft-repeated expectations?  Screaming fits?  Destructive indifference toward the property of others?  Calculated and coordinated mess-making?

The silver lining to the admission that these things exist in the Birmingham Haven of Peace and Quietude is that normally they occur in a somewhat staggered fashion, and by no more than three children at once. 

Most days, this fact almost makes up for the reality that I am severely outnumbered in addition to being outsmarted, outpaced, outwitted, and outmatched by the smaller residents of my home.  

My morning routine involves between 8 and 12 disciplinary sessions with varying individuals, each of which last anywhere between three seconds (infraction requiring sharp, life-saving command, no physical intervention, no Scripture reference)...

...to three minutes (sharp, life-saving command requiring physical intervention, extrication, or redirection, followed by gentle exhortation, including Scripture reference)...

...to 35 minutes (serious infraction of physical or emotional nature, requiring immediate separation of perp/perp or perp/victim, followed by careful reconstruction of crime scene, interviews with involved parties and witnesses, dispensation of appropriate discipline/sympathy, including Scripture references and prayer, concluded by emergency dispatch of search party to locate non-involved parties who have taken the opportunity to ditch their math and escape to the front yard while I was otherwise engaged).  

I have honed my skills to the point that as long as my children allow me the necessary 7.4 seconds of prayer and deep breathing that I require between each set of disciplinary actions, I can hold it together.

But last week, there was an incident where all present parties let loose at once.  And my older girls (who are helpful in these situations) were gone.  

And we had company over.  

And the company had small, sweet, impressionable children who were watching the arguing, fighting, breakage, disrespect, and disregard unfold before their eyes.  

And no matter what I did, I was not able to get it back together until the next day.  

It was a triumph of sin.  A humbling revelation of how much work is left to do in the hearts of my children--and in mine.

Thankfully, my company was very understanding.  They did not run screaming (as I was tempted to do), but instead stayed, made a commitment to pray for me, and offered me encouragement instead of judgement.

But I judged myself. And I admit to throwing a little pout up to God, attached to a reminder of all I have been trying to do over "these past three years of uncertainty."

Now that we are nearing "closure" I guess I was expecting God to move a little more in the hearts of our two youngest , who have had to live with more pain and confusion than they ought to have experienced.  

And maybe I thought He would work a little faster to fill the gaps in our older ones who have had less attention than they would like from me, less consistency than they need, and less protection from the realities of sadness, evil, anger, and injustice than I wanted them to have at their ages. 

As I thought over that day, I realized that I still come to God too often waving my time card and sporting an air of entitlement.  

"See, God?  Big stuff, here!  I took on more, worked harder, prayed longer, ran faster, and took the blows like a trooper.  Three years!  Wow!  I'm bushed!  Now you can bless me with an easy stretch.  I'll just sit here on my spiritual toboggan and wait for the downhill push."

And when a few months go by and I am still feeling besieged, I come again, but this time I feel--can I be honest?--a little irritated.

"God?  Remember that healing I prayed for?  See the massive spiritual battles we've got going on here?  I KNOW you can fix them.  It won't even be hard for you.  Here's my Giant Faith, now please meet my expectations."

And yet...

And yet, He has told me that His ways are higher than mine (Isaiah 55:9), and that far from getting to order Him up, I don't even know what I should ask for when I pray (Romans 8:26), and that even when I don't feel it, His love for me is higher than the heavens (Psalm 103:11) and His compassion is beyond measure (Psalm 51:1), and He will not leave me alone in my struggles (Hebrews 13:5).

Now is the time when I need to chuck the idea of "closure" once and for all, especially if what I mean is "the point where the ugly problems and besetting sins of myself and others are all wrapped up and put away and they never bother me again."

If that is the definition, then I'm pretty sure closure is when I'm dead, and I should probably stop asking for it.  

Adoption is a wonderful milestone, but it unfolds onto another long hard, broken, beautiful road--the path where a group of sinful, selfish people with very different backgrounds, and real needs, and big challenges work together to become the family God has planned for us to be.  

And it will be wonderful and painful and scary and sanctifying, and it is likely NOT going to be easy.

Because the best things aren't.

   

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Psalm 63:1-8

You, God, are my God,
    earnestly I seek you;
I thirst for you,
    my whole being longs for you,
   in a dry and parched land

     where there is no water.

                       I have seen you in the sanctuary

              and beheld your power and your glory. 

                Because your love is better than life,
                        my lips will glorify you.
                       I will praise you as long as I live,
            and in your name I will lift up my hands.
                                I will be fully satisfied 

                      as with the richest of foods;
          with singing lips my mouth will praise you.

                     On my bed I remember you;
     I think of you through the watches of the night.
                             Because you are my help,
               I sing in the shadow of your wings.
                                I cling to you;
                    your right hand upholds me.