On Parenting and Prayer

The title “Mommy” comes as a mixed blessing. I hear that word spoken a lot these days, and after 35 years of just being “Connie,” the new title still takes me by surprise; even ten years later. “Mommy.”

Several years ago one of my daughters, I forget which one, experimented a time or two with calling me “Connie.” I let her know that it was NOT going to be okay to call me that; I was “Mommy” to her. The name "Mommy" was special between her and me and she was to use it. Now that they’re both getting into their “mid-preteens,” I’ve tried to let them know that “Mom” would be okay with me, but these days they’re the ones who insist on calling me “Mommy.” Mom just doesn’t sound right to either of them. Yet.

I hear the title maybe a hundred times a day or so. Sometimes when I hear “Mommy” I kind of have to grit my teeth and prepare. I hear it whined at the top of somebody’s lungs (I didn’t even know you could whine at the top of your lungs!). “MO-O-O-O me-e-e-e-e!” I know something’s not right in somebody’s world and she's expecting, right or wrong, that I’m to do something about it. Sometimes it feels like a burden. Sometimes it feels like an accusation. Like somebody’s saying, “I’m hungry and YOU’RE not doing anything about it! What’s WRONG with you?” So I sigh, pull myself out of the equation and decide which to address first—the need the child feels, or the tone of the child’s voice. If it’s not an emergency I’ll have her try again, coming to me without a whine. It’s a bit like hitting your head against a brick wall. I’ve been doing it numerous times a day for years. I’m assuming one day they’ll both get it.

And then there’s this other way I hear the title, “Mommy.” It starts with a feeling, little butterfly hands, and arms wrapping themselves softly around my waist (it used to be my thigh), and then the word, sweetly: “Mommy.” When I hear that word, spoken that way, it doesn’t matter what I’m doing. I’m immediately drawn away from my task and that child becomes the focus of my attention.

* * *

This summer we started a nice mommy-daughter ritual. It really started when my sister was here and we went to the library, checked out some books and took them over to a coffee shop. Well, we’ve done that ever since, every Thursday when my husband was at work. Only school is back in session now, and we can’t really go on Thursdays. ‘Sokay, though, Roger works on Saturdays too and so we go every Saturday now—just the three of us. Roger has his own daddy-daughter rituals—hikes and trips to the YMCA; the library is ours.

So this past Saturday a neighbor kid’s dad called and asked if my girls wanted to come over and play. I explained what we were doing and offered to let his daughter come along, which he did. They enjoy playing with this neighbor kid, so a trip up town would be fun, I thought, for the three of them. It was set. We were all getting ready to go, and they were to cross the street to get the neighbor girl. I reminded them to look both ways (mothers!), turning back to the kitchen as the door closed. Then I felt the butterfly hands—arms hugging my waist, and a soft voice said, “Mommy.” I turned to give her a hug and saw her furrowed brow.

“What’s the matter, sweetie?” I asked with a quick squeeze.

“I think I just wanted it to be a Mommy-daughter thing” was her reply. She was asking what no true southern woman—or former southern woman—can give. She was asking that I take back an invitation.

But you know what? The thing she asked for was exactly what I really wanted. A Mommy-daughter day. And the way she asked was extraordinarily sweet. We went ahead and took the neighbor girl along with us, because it was the right thing to do, but from now on it’ll be just the three of us.

* * *

So there’s been a journey going on with me, starting with a quest for healing for my child’s eyes. I heard about some healing revival going on somewhere and suddenly realized it was something I really wanted for her. I’ve prayed quite a bit about it, and seen her eyes progress from very crossed to almost normal. And now, with school starting and a tougher schedule, she’s regressed some and her eyes cross again as she looks back at me. But you know, I’m glad I asked. And I’m still asking, because the prayer has added a sweetness to my life and her crossed eye really is better than it was.

But it’s not just about the eye anymore, much as I’d like to see that resolved. I’ve journeyed through some wild places—spiritually speaking. And even as the healing revival has imploded, just as one would expect where inhumane pressure was placed on the shoulders of a single human to carry the thing—even still, I’ve learned how to pray. When you pray, you don’t put on your whiniest voice and wheedle, “A-A-A-A-A-ba-a-a-a-a! Abbah FA-A-A-A-ther!” “DA-A-A-A-A-de-e-e-e-e! I NE-E-E-E-ED this! You PRO-mised! What’s that ‘by His stripes’ passage about if it’s not about my situation right here!? Huh?”

Uh—no. That’s not the way. Unless you really want God to grit His teeth, sigh, and turn to you and deal with your tone of voice.

There’s a better way. You find your way to His presence, wrap your arms around the sweetness of it, and just enjoy for a while. “Daddy.” And the more time you spend there the more you begin to sense what He wants to do. And those are the things you ask for. And it starts out as a laying down of your own wants, a sacrifice, but then the more time you spend there the more you actually WANT the things that He wants, and the prayers start to change, and the things He wants are the things you ask for, because you feel His big heart and sense His real hurts and you want to see His Heart’s desire be fulfilled. So God’s things are your things.

Today I’m still praying for my child’s healing. It’s not because that’s what I want anymore, although I deeply want that. And to be honest, I’m still not really sure He wants her to be healed in the present. But I am sure of one thing. He wants me to pray it. I sense it when I ask. Maybe because it’s the catalyst that draws me to Him. Maybe it really IS what He wants to do. Maybe it’s about all the fringe benefits—time spent with God, drinking in His sweetness, carrying that back out to the world around me. Maybe there’s some other reason I don’t understand yet. But I know this—if He wants me to ask, I feel no need to whine, and I feel no need to be shy about it. I do feel the need to touch Him, to say His name, to enjoy His presence, and I find in the process I am healed myself.