We've had a tiring week. Nothing tragic, just a few bites and slaps and a lot of toddler defiance. Nothing we can't handle with grace and relative ease. But instead of basking in the strides we're making, my sinful nature automatically focuses on the difficulty of having someone else's child in the house and how he'd be different if he'd been born here. We've gone from "NO!" and temper tantrums to "Yes, please," and "Thank you." We're communicating in sentences and no longer putting little feet on the dinner table. Those are successes! And yet I get bogged down in the size 5 diapers--why isn't this child potty trained?--and the stench emanating from his mouth--he's on public aid: why hasn't he seen a dentist?
Where others may see my outward kindness, God and I can clearly see the proud and impatient toddler-like woman I am below the surface. I like things my way, and right now normal is out of whack. My spirit is irritable. But I don't believe this gives me the right to give up or even to pout. Grown-ups need to Do the Hard Things, too.
"Therefore, as God's chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience." Colossians 3:12
I think my coat needs some mending.