I am sure sometimes people wonder about my family. I often use the description of "hot-mess" about us. And the idea of calling the blog "the hot-mess" Samaritan crossed my mind, but "Broken Samaritan" just flowed better and was easier to type. Why would I call my own sweet darlings a hot-mess?
On Friday night, our church had its first family night in the sanctuary. Chairs were pushed aside to make room for blankets and sleeping bags. Kids wore their jammies and slippers. Parents got cozy beside them (and noted how old their hips felt after sitting on the floor of the sanctuary) where they watched Despicable Me 2 on the big screen. The church also went "old-school" for the concession stand and charged 50 cents per item with unlimited refills on popcorn. Sound picture perfect right?
Here is a picture of my family: My two youngest were so jazzed I was actually letting them get something from the concession stand, they were pinging off the walls. In fact, my youngest, who is only 18 months younger than my third and exactly the same size, was riding on his brother's back rodeo-style all the way to the line. One might ask, what is rodeo-style look like? Lots of hooting and hollering and one hand grabbing at the back with a death grip and the other hand waving in the air. That my friend, is rodeo style. Yes, the younger one was riding his brother rodeo style to the back of the concession stand line. And, a 50 cent per item menu with a church that hosts 2,000 attendees a weekend, creates a pretty long line.
As my youngest yippee and yahooed on the back of his brother, I could see his brother's legs weakening. They fell to the ground and began a bit of WWW (world wide wrestling) because for no other reason than hyped-up boys on the ground with nothing else to do but match each other in a bout of wrestling. It was a scene. And to boot, did I mention it was at the feet of the senior pastor. And did I mention, one boy's pajamas were inside out and the other couldn't find pajamas so he wore gray thermals that clinged to his gawky, six-year-old body? While this spectacle is happening before my eyes, my 11 year old is embarrassed and proceeds to take disciplining into his own hands by punching each of the boys in the throat. I promise I have never used it as a discipline measure, so I can only sum that up to his school friends or modern technology. I gathered my boys and marched them to our seats. Of course, they had put our blankets down front and center in the sanctuary. They wanted the best seats in the house. So I tip-toed over sweet families laying on neat blankets. I looked at my kiddos and the mess my boys had piled at the front of the sanctuary. I likened the entire ordeal to the aftermath of a civil war. But as I smiled, I knew it as my own civil war and we always seemed to wear our mess out for everyone to see. Yep, we are that family. And you know what? I am okay with that. I don't know if it is because I am a little lazy to try and create an image that we have it all together or long ago I realized people liked me a lot better if I were real. More than once, I have heard, "I just love you because you are so real." Which really means, I look at you, sweet girl, and gosh, I can relate."
Now don't get me wrong, sometimes I get caught up in the comparison machine that feeds a feeling of inadequacy and jealousy. But being "that family" sometimes suits me better. It seems a lot easier being me, hot-mess and all. I look at that family that appears to have it all together and I am not really drawn to them. I don't want to put that kind of pressure on myself. I am okay with inside-out jammies and rodeo-riding brothers and cheese quesadillas for the fourth night in a row for dinner. I am okay with a ball cap for my go-to hair-do, if it saves me 30 minutes in the morning and legs unshaven until April.
So I say this with great enthusiasm, "Sisters, give yourself a break and each other. We have only one, short life. And it is qAtoo great to waste on the things that don't matter."
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