My husband and I had been happily (most of the time) married for five
years, but hadn't been blessed with a baby. I decided to do some serious
praying and promised God that if He would give us a child, I would be a
perfect mother, love it with all my heart and raise it with His word as my
guide. God answered my prayers and blessed us with a son. The next year God
blessed us with another son. The following year, he blessed us with yet
another son. The year after that we were blessed with a daughter.
My husband thought we'd been blessed right into poverty. We now had four
children, and the oldest was only four years old. I learned never to ask God
for anything unless I meant it. As a minister once told me, "If you pray for
rain, make sure you carry an umbrella."
I began reading a few verses of the Bible to the children each day as they
lay in their cribs. I was off to a good start. God had entrusted me with
four children and I didn't want to disappoint Him.
I tried to be patient the day the children smashed two dozen eggs on the
kitchen floor searching for baby chicks. I tried to be understanding when
they started a hotel for homeless frogs in the spare bedroom, although it
took me nearly two hours to catch all twenty-three frogs. When my daughter
poured ketchup all over herself and rolled up in a blanket to see how it
felt to be a hot dog, I tried to see the humor rather than the mess. In
spite of changing over twenty-five thousand diapers, never eating a hot meal
and never sleeping for more than thirty minutes at a time, I still thank God
daily for my children. While I couldn't keep my promise to be a perfect
mother. I didn't even come close. I did keep my promise to raise them in the
Word of God. I knew I was missing the mark just a little when I told my
daughter we were going to church to worship God, and she wanted to bring a
bar of soap along to "wash up" Jesus, too.
Something was lost in the translation when I explained that God gave us
everlasting life, and my son thought it was generous of God to give us his
"last wife."
My proudest moment came during the children's Christmas pageant though. My
daughter was playing Mary, two of my sons were shepherds and my youngest son
was a wise man. This was their moment to shine. My five-year-old shepherd
had practiced his line, "We found the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes."
But he was nervous and said, "The baby was wrapped in wrinkled clothes."
My four-year-old "Mary" said, "That's not 'wrinkled clothes,' silly.
That's dirty, rotten clothes." A wrestling match broke out between Mary and
the shepherd and was stopped by an angel, who bent her halo and lost her
left wing.
I slouched a little lower in my seat when Mary dropped the doll representing Baby Jesus, and it bounced down the aisle crying,
"Mama-mama." Mary grabbed the doll, wrapped it back up and held it tightly
as the wise men arrived. My other son stepped forward wearing a bathrobe and
a paper crown, knelt at the manger and announced, "We are the three wise
men, and we are bringing gifts of gold, common sense and fur."
The congregation dissolved into laughter, and the pageant got a standing
ovation. "I've never enjoyed a Christmas program as much as this one,"
Pastor Brian laughed, wiping tears from his eyes. "For the rest of my
life, I'll never hear the Christmas story without thinking of gold, common
sense and fur."
"My children are my pride and my joy and my greatest blessing,"
I said as I dug through my purse for an aspirin.
