Some days I wish certain people lived in my house.
Like the time the boys came off the bus with all kinds of questions about sex. Apparently some kid on the bus had been talking on the bus. He had told them all he “knew”. Which left my seven and nine year old with more questions than answers. It wasn’t the first time. This time though, the questions were more concrete.
I told them to let me think about it and then I tore up the stairs and frantically pulled out my Kevin Leman book, A Chicken’s Guide to Talking Turkey to Your Kids about Sex. (written with Kathy Flores Bell). I flipped through that book looking for anything that would help me. Thankfully I had already been reading it. I quickly patted myself on the back for doing a couple of things right (yes!) and then flipped some more until I found some help.
I wished Kevin Lehman lived in my house that day. I know it won’t be the last time I wish for that.
I wish Betty Crocker, the Sneaky Chef Missy Chase Lapine or Oprah’s chef, lived in my house. I hate the daily decision of “What’s for supper?” Which in my house is almost rhetorical because my two picky eaters won’t like it anyways. I think they should ask, “What am I going to hate tonight?” instead.
If Betty or Sneaky Missy or Oprah’s chef lived here, I could just pass that tedious little stressor off on them. It’s one of those things that if you don’t know at the top of the day it’ll nag at you. All.Day.Long. What are you having for supper? What are you going to do for supper? On and on. It’s poking me as I write because quite frankly I don’t know what we are having for supper and I wish I didn’t care! Betty would whip up something quick. Sneaky would fill it with pureed goodness and Oprah’s chef would not only make it look good but it would taste divine! The boys would wolf it down. Maybe. But it wouldn’t matter to me because I didn’t make it!
I wish a personal trainer lived in my house. Better yet, I wish the dancers who did the New York City Ballet Workout lived in my house. Then I could dance and work out. I wouldn’t be able to put it off because they’d be herding me to the back of a chair turned barre, even though I have twenty-million things to do!
I wish a pastor lived in my house. Oh yeah…he does. Scratch that. So where is he when all the questions come? Because the questions invariably come when he is not at home. It’s like my children know that all the theological questions must surface once daddy has left the house. Although this is a slight exaggeration, some days I feel like it is truth.
Like a couple of nights ago. And just to be fair, the pastor may have been in the house but he wasn’t with me as I was putting my youngest to bed. The lights were out and I was all ready to retreat to some peace and quiet. And out popped “I’m not sure God is real. He doesn’t answer my prayers.”
I was tired. I was on the verge of freedom. My eyes started to roll and my knees sagged. Thankfully it was dark. But the question hung in the air. It needed attention.
I asked why he thought that.
He had been praying for something and he didn’t see an answer. I thought about all the theological answers to this age old question. Started to go there only to get silence in response. I backed up. Pleading with God to find an answer a nine year old, who is trying to understand faith and God, could understand. And then it came to me, divine inspiration. “You know how sometimes Mommy and Daddy want whats best for you? That sometimes we say yes, no or wait.” A nod. “Well it’s the same for God. Sometimes he says yes, no or wait depending on what is best for us. Do you understand?” Yes he did.
I wanted to say so much more. To make him understand that God hears his prayers. I didn’t. I felt the divine nudge to leave it for now.
Sometimes I wish God would live in my house. Then I am reminded that He already does. I just need to open the door and He willingly comes in.