Rubies, pearls, and wood beads

I had run in to the store for a simple 5 dozen eggs. My husband was with the kids, probably circling the parking lot in our big van to preserve Jude’s post-church nap. The whole stop had taken all of three minutes when I placed the big box on the conveyor belt at the register.

The cashier smiled a welcome, then reached for the eggs. When she looked up, her eyes settled on my chest. As a nursing mom, my mind immediately flashed to ohmygoodnessamIwalkingaroundexposed?!?!, causing me to casually glance down. As usual, I had sped through my Sunday morning with a long to-do list and limited time. My criteria for my personal appearance had only two requirements: clean, and matching. Once I made sure the cashier wasn’t getting an eyeful from an improperly latched nursing bra, I took further stock. Printed skirt, red shirt … and a necklace of wood beads strung on a thin shoelace.

Haute coutoure, to be sure.

“You’ve got kids?” the cashier asked finally, scanning the box.

“Yes,” I said, wondering if the follow-up question was going to go in the direction of of their number since I was clearly buying enough eggs for a small army and sporting the latest in kindergarten chic.

Rubies, pearls, and wooden beads| To Sow a Seed

 

“They love you, Mom.” This time she looked me fully in the eyes. The corners of her mouth crinkled happily. “Don’t you forget that.”

“Oh, I don’t,” I answered, swiping my card. They love me. Of course they do.

“You’re a treasure to those babies. Like rubies and pearls.” Her voice was insistent now. Hear me, she was saying.

I stopped, caught by her tone. I looked back to my chest, where our conversation had started. That necklace–Birdie had made for me that morning. I had just stepped into the shower, just begun to feel the muscles of my neck relax, just begun my habit of laying the laundry list of my prayers at the feet of the Lord. A knock at the door had shattered my expected five minutes of peace. In bobbed a small blond head, eager to share all the details of her creativity. She had left the necklace draped over my clothes, and I had thrown it on without much thought, knowing it would delight her to see me wearing it. It had, of course. But for the rest of the morning– through the car ride, through church, through the fellowship lunch afterward– it had been forgotten.

They love me, I realized. I know this like I know how to breathe. But… they love me.

As carefully as I carry each of my children in my heart, as painfully precious as they are to me, as desperately as I love them… they love me.

That morning, as I was occupied with getting dinner in the crockpot, tying shoes, and packing the diaper bag, Birdie was thinking of me. When Phineas raced to tell someone about the spider on the window, it was me he was looking for. When Mathaus discovered some new fact in his book on Russia, he sought my ear. When Jude was startled by the dog’s bark, he wanted my arms.

We believe, as parents, that we have the market cornered on love. We believe ours is the deeper, more real version. Maybe because we know how fallible we are, or we see the many ways in which we don’t measure up to being the mother we want to be, we assume that our children are the recipients of the strongest emotions in the parent/child dance. Maybe because we carry around the weight of the relationships we have with our own parents, or because we know that conflicts are inevitable, we think that our love is the more pure version.

So we forget that we are treasures. We forget that just as they are gifts to us, we, too, are gifts to them. We forget that, to our children, we are of great worth. Above rubies. Above pearls. Above, even, wood beads.

 

One thought on “Rubies, pearls, and wood beads

  1. Oh, how I needed this today…to be reminded of their deep love for me and be certain to take notice and let it seep deep into my heart. Thank you! I read your blog often and just love your writing and your perspective on life. I was part of fruitful families once upon a time and am now blogging myself. You are inspiring.

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