Goosebump Moments

When I started this blog, my intention was to write about what I’m walking through with God—what I’m wondering and what He’s showing me. What I did not want to do was create another Mommy Blog. I’m a mommy through and through, but I hear enough about other people’s kids, and I’m sure most people feel the same way. If it’s mom stories you want, they’re readily available, and they’re told by women who can write circles around me.

But sometimes what I’m wondering and what God is showing me comes from my kids. And then I have to write about it.

I don’t do surface conversation well. I thrive at the gut level, where people’s deepest thoughts are stirred and released. It’s hard to find this level very often with a young kid. It’s not that they’re trying to be superficial; to them, the road kill rotting in the front yard is the most profound discovery in the universe. It’s just not something I care to talk about for more than 20 seconds.

But the other night, I plunged head first into gut-level conversation with two of my girls. We were driving home in the pitch dark, just the three of us, and we went from talking about the really tall people we know to Goliath to “Was there really a Goliath?” to “How do we know the Bible is true?” in about half a mile. One daughter confessed that she questioned God’s very existence. While surprised to hear this, I was even more surprised (happily) when He gave me the words to respond: “God is big enough to handle your questions. They don’t make Him love you any less.”

And then from the mouth of a light-hearted five-year-old, I heard, “Mommy, I have some big questions about my life, too.” Intrigued and amused, I asked what they were. “Well, sometimes I wonder if I’m just a person in a book. Or on a show. Or if maybe I’m just a toy someone’s playing with.”

Check the rearview mirror and pull the car over!! And God, please give me the words. Don’t let me mess this up! One of my favorite word pictures of God is that He’s the author of my story. He writes the plot, the ups and the downs, but I fill in the details. And no matter what, I can trust that the author is good and that He loves me. Somehow, all those words managed to tumble out of my mouth in a way she seemed to understand.

Finally, we made it home. One daughter ran off to the bathroom, while the other stayed close by me. “Mom?” she asked, “If Goliath’s purpose was to be used to demonstrate God’s glory, what’s your purpose?” At this point, I am floating. I live for this stuff, and my daughter keeps coming back for more! Does it get any better than this? I got to explain to her that my purpose is the same as Goliath’s, it just looks a little different. We talked for several more minutes, and she made a few more astute, stunningly mature observations. Goose bumps had long overtaken my body. I had that crazy sensation that we stumble upon every once in a great while, the kind that says, “This is why you are alive.”

And then little Brooka beckoned me into the bathroom at the top of her lungs. “Mom! You gotta come here!” Turning toward her, I’m thinking, “What, God? What’s next? How are you going to top this? Is she going to ask me the meaning of life? Bring it on! I am so ready!”

Barely able to contain herself, she squealed, “My poodoo just came out of my bottom and slid right down the hole into the potty, and THEN it slithered right back out just like a snake!”

And the magic was gone. Slithering off like a snake.

But for about half an hour on a random Friday night, the magic was there, and it was beautiful. Parenting is 99 percent poodoo and roadkill and jungle animals and begging for fruit snacks. But every once in awhile, the magic is there, and then you know why you are alive.