Here’s a definition of maturity that I heard recently: Being in distress and remaining your best
self. I don’t know anyone who’s mastered that, but I can say for sure one
of the times I am my least mature, worst self—school picture day.
Whose idea was it, exactly, to send our children off for a seven-hour
day of school—a day which will include a soccer game in PE, a spill-fest in the
cafeteria, and a few hundred twirls around the monkey bars—and have their
picture taken? For the yearbook? Had to be a man. A man with sons. And why did
God think I could be my best self with three daughters, anyway? Some days I
wonder, and picture day is my most wondering day of all.
Was I my best self when my littlest girl wanted to wear a
dress three inches too short or have her hair “all curly”? (I really stink at
hair.) No, I wasn’t. What about when my middle daughter pulled out the most
bizarre combination of clothes imaginable and called it dressing up? (Every
year I send Brooka to school on picture day and wait for the call: “Mrs. Jones,
you know it was a dress-up day, right? Not a costume day?”) Or when she
plastered her bangs to her head with a water bottle, setting off a chain of
events that led to her little sister toppling into the trash can and spilling dirty
Kleenexes all over the floor? Um, no, not my best self. I also didn’t redeem myself
when my oldest daughter—wearing her school uniform because I’ve learned not
even to go there with her—needed to handle the chickens as we walked out the
door—on picture day!
Was I my best self when the younger two wrestled on the
floor over toothpaste, on picture day? (That’s freshly-curled hair in the line
of toothpaste fire, you know!) No. Or when one of the girls couldn’t find her
picture order form, the one I so carefully filled out the night before? No
again. How about when we pulled up to school? My best self would say, “I love
you, girls!” or “Be kind!” or “Love others well today!” My picture-day self
hollered, “Be sure you pull your hair forward for the picture!” My best self,
the one who cares about character and kindness far more than hair, just refused
to show up. The sad thing is, I wasn’t even in distress. I was merely being
stretched beyond my normal early-morning capacity.
Slightly defeated, I returned home with two assurances.
First, the grace of God covers a multitude of my failures. I'm so thankful. And second, I’ll
have the opportunity to practice maturity all over again on next year’s picture
day. (Although surely I can find a more attainable definition of maturity by
then.)
(Dedicated to my
friend Rebecca, who lives my parallel life about a mile down the road and whose
daughters have even more hair than mine.)
