no no no

Yesterday, my children and I traipsed all over the 1200-acre park bordering our neighborhood. We hiked through the horse pasture, wandered through the woods while my kids pretended to be lost and afraid, played in the sand volleyball court, and explored the formal gardens near the park’s manor house. Here, in the 85-degree heat, I collapsed onto a nearby bench. I had lugged all the necessities in my backpack: heavy Yeti water bottles, bug spray, sunglasses, snacks, and sand toys. I was sticky, stinky, and hungry, but Dean and June still bounced around, whacking at wind chimes and squealing at butterflies. When Dean pointed out a small forest of what looked like banana trees and wanted me to climb under the canopy with him, my first response was no.

I was slouched on my bench, scratching mosquito bites, thinking about lunch. I actually do love these park days (we go at least once a week), but I’m always ready to leave before they are. And so I said no without even thinking.

Recently, I’ve been trying to become more aware of how many times I say no when I could say yes. It’s hard. My instinct is to make my own life easier and more efficient, and usually, it feels like a no is the only way to accomplish those two goals. But I don’t actually want those to be the things I’m working toward: ease and efficiency. Those aren’t high and holy objectives. They’re a mark of my own selfishness, and if I’m striving toward ease and efficiency, I’m not also focused on training, nurturing, and disciplining my children in truth and grace.

I changed my mind. I said yes. I got off the bench, bent over, and waddled into the maze of tropical trees. It was not hard. And I realized, too, that I don’t want Dean to stop asking me things. I don’t want to be sweating on a park bench, unbothered, ignored, because my son assumes I don’t want to climb through a tangle of shrubs or rub lamb’s ear or sniff the gardenias. I have children, and I want my life to feel like I have children.  

Last week, my kids lugged back cups of dead junebugs. This week, they carried home a collection of leaves. I didn’t pay attention to the leaves; they weren’t special to me. But Dean wanted more, so I went inside to make lunch while he scoured the backyard for new specimens to add to his leaf collection. When I called for him to come in and wash up, he realized he’d lost his leaves. He was upset. He asked for time to look for the missing collection.

My instinct, of course, was no. We have a schedule to keep; we need to eat lunch now. But I didn’t say it. I found myself saying yes. We do have a schedule, but it serves my agenda. And while a lost cup of leaves does not seem important to me, I want Dean to know that he’s important. 

I didn’t go back outside to remind him lunch was ready. He came in fairly soon, and the first thing he said was, “I prayed to God to help me find my leaves. And look! I found them!” The second: “thank you for letting me have time to look, Mama.”

Here’s how I see it: I gave him space and time, and he used it to pray. And then he was able to witness the fruit of his prayer, and that moved him to gratitude. To me, that is worth far more than finishing up lunch in time for the next item on the agenda. There’s lasting value in Dean praying, seeing God at work, and responding with thankfulness. There is no lasting value in a lunch eaten and cleaned up by naptime.

This is not an area that I excel in. It is the opposite. But I’m grateful for Dean’s answered prayer, because it’s more than just God’s grace on a little five-year-old’s heart. It is God’s grace for me, too.