My back was to the storm cloud when I heard the initial thunder. I should have been more aware; my husband had mentioned we wouldn’t have much time on the kayaks before the storm rolled in. I was distracted between the three little bodies who needed sunscreen and the custom-order life jacket that we needed to exchange on the way to the reservoir. By the time we dipped our kayaks into the water, it was nearly lunchtime and consequently, almost naptime.
Our leisurely pace on the water and my concentration on being present in the moment with my boys, pointing out dragonflies and honeysuckle, distracted me. When the thunder offered its first warning, I used every ounce of strength to abruptly turn my vessel 180 degrees toward shore. I struggled to maintain momentum of the long, heavy kayak, weighed down with an additional passenger who did not understand our rush.
“What does it feel like to be electrocuted?” he wondered aloud.
I didn’t want to find out as my husband and I raced our kayaks across the reservoir. Suddenly, I felt like a novice at what appears to be a leisurely, uncomplicated sport. It was then that I noticed all the other kayaks were nowhere in sight; their owners had all heeded the storm’s early cues and headed back sooner. Or maybe their timing was just lucky, and they were all now eating lunch.
Regardless, the five of us in our two kayaks were the only ones still out. My arms were exhausted even as I rejoiced that yesterday’s trampoline park excursion left only my legs sore.
We closed in on the shore, glancing back at the black clouds, an unspoken race against Mother Nature.
I believed my kayak could beat the clouds, but their fury was mounting as they arrived above us. I saw the raindrops on the glassy surface of the water long before I felt them, thousands of tiny droplets creating concentric circles. Next, I heard the wall of rain. A thin white running cap was the only barrier between me and those clouds. Despite managing to remain dry during our outing on the water, I was drenched in seconds, just minutes from shore. There was a small queue of other canoes, boats, kayaks, and paddleboards at the loading dock, but everyone was in a rush to get to shore, to solid ground and into their vehicles, so we didn’t wait long. We kept our life jackets on in lieu of the raincoats we had left behind in the truck.
The summer rain was invigorating, breathing a sudden sense of urgency into our leisurely outing. We huddled around our kayaks as my husband left to retrieve the truck. I contemplated taking shelter under a tree but feared lightning strike. The truck arrived shortly after, and we hoisted three dripping boys into the truck. They squealed with delight in its shelter while scrambling for their towels and dry clothes. The air had gotten cooler and we still needed to load the kayaks and paddles. We divvied out belated lunches. The planner in me knew we were pushing our luck, cutting into naptime. Sure enough, one of our kids threw a tantrum over what we had packed for him. His exaggerated meltdown warranted pulling over, rain and all, and necessitated a long talk on the side of the road, only a few hundred yards from the reservoir’s entrance. Finally, we resumed the drive home.
I love kayaking, I love rainy days and my birthday and storms and my boys, but somehow the combination of all of it overwhelmed me and I exploded. My words crushed. Even worse, they had little effect on the intended four-year-old recipient, who response was to spit on me (quite a feat from the backseat!). We pulled over again. I stayed in the truck, my fuse too short in the heat of the moment, while my husband talked to him once again.
I wish, for the sake of closure, that this is where I’d now offer a tidy lesson I learned from all of this, the parenting changes I made, the self-perspective I gained. But I was still at a loss for how to handle my tongue and his, when they clash constantly, all day every day, despite my own best school counselor parenting advice. We’ve tried it all — routines, consistency, individual time and attention, special “helper” jobs, a designated calm-down area, dietary changes, sports, his own room, trips to work with daddy, and heart-to-hearts.
I prayed fervently over this delicate stage of his life and started over with incorporating the Jesus Storybook Bible in our nightly routines. Initially, bedtime remained chaotic, the boys vying for our attention and crawling over each other on my son’s queen-sized sheets as my husband read from the Bible. Consistency in this daily habit was the only way to create the quiet family time I envisioned.
I turn to my own Bible for answers. For reassurance. For a reset. I read throughout Proverbs about the tongue and its life-giving tendencies.
“The tongue has the power of life and death, and those who love it will eat its fruit (Proverbs 18:21, NIV).”
I think about the discontent I sometimes feel in my own home, the place where I should be able to recharge. I wonder if I am placing my energies into the wrong places, searching for distractions in fleeting ideas: a new dog, a new home, a new career path, when really what refills me lies written across the thin pages of my leather-bound Bible, its truths sustaining through all time and certainly through thousands of weary, exasperated mothers before me.
I seesaw between taking action, making plans to restore order at home, but I know that’s not what I need. I need to be listening more, grounding myself and my family in the reassurances of Jesus, His promises of life and truth. His calming presence. His unconditional love. Jesus wants my time and attention even more than my four-year-old craves mine.
For all the energy I exert analyzing how I spend my time, I sometimes neglect to recognize its place in my walk with God. Doesn’t He crave my time and attention, too? Shouldn’t I be pursuing His? He’s rolling out all the stops for me if I’d just open my heart to notice it. He comes in the fog rolling in, and I shouldn’t be running away.
Long after bedtime on his seventh birthday, my oldest son padded downstairs and caught me writing him a birthday letter in his baby book. He asked to sit with me, and he poured over each page. I read my letters aloud to him. He asked me to record his height on his growth chart ruler. All these simple mile-markers I established back when I had all the time in the world, those things that hold meaning and our memories and milestones, the moments I noticed, bits and pieces of ourselves and of our past and what we are made of. These moments are always there, if I could just take the time to look up and really notice. And to think, if I had said no when he came downstairs that night, I would have missed that precious time together. What else have I missed, then, when I say no to God and raced onward with my own plans for my time? How do I begin to say yes when the path ahead is hazy at best?
What thunderclouds am I trying to outrace, when I could be dancing in the rain?