Last weekend, Milo was sitting across from me in the living room when he chucked his monster truck in my direction. I don’t think he intended to hit me, but when the heavy plastic on that little truck bounced off the back of my hand, I was frustrated. It hurt, ya know?
So I picked up his monster truck and threw it to the side of me and stated firmly, “We DO NOT throw monster trucks!”
The irony of that moment caught up to me and I couldn’t help but laugh at my obvious parenting fail. Here I was telling my toddler to not throw monster trucks while I was in the very act of doing so.
I felt very human in that moment.
My utter humanness comes out a lot actually. I struggle daily with intrusive thoughts. I’m horribly inconsistent. Just the other day I legitimately struggled to feel happy for a friend who received a blessing that for me is still pending—and I hated myself for the envy that was brewing inside of me.
I’m not very good at managing money. I get discouraged a lot. I’m too sensitive at times and often take things way too personally. I am always tired—literally always, no matter how much sleep I get.
Let’s see, what else?
There is currently an alarming number of Cheerios under my couch cushions. Milo ate a chocolate chip cookie for breakfast. I can’t remember the last time I shaved my legs. There’s a basket of miscellaneous dirty laundry sitting in my laundry room from 6+ months ago that I keep avoiding.
Little things like this, though insignificant, also make me feel very human.
But occasionally, all of my humanness is interrupted by these little moments of holiness. Moments that remind me that I do in fact have a spark of godliness within me. Moments that remind me that perfection, though distant, may not be an impossible feat after all.
One of these “caught-in-the-act-of-holiness” moments occurred last week in a way I didn’t expect.
Milo is prone to ear infections. Last week he ran a high fever off and on for a few days, and nights proved to be especially agonizing for him as his body struggled to fight off the impending infection.
I held him close all three nights, stroked his hair, checked his temperature like clockwork, refilled sippy cup after sippy cup, engaged in the battle of forcing Tylenol down, and told him countless times how sorry I was he felt so crappy.
By the time the fever came and went, I was exhausted (remember I said I am always tired no matter how little or how much sleep I get?). I don’t think I would have thought twice about this experience had Heavenly Father not whispered to my soul, “See! You are a good mom. Look how much you love your child.”
I guess so, I agreed in my head. Then I stopped to really think less about what I did to help Milo when he was suffering and more about how I felt.
I felt pure, sacrificial love. I would have done anything to assuage Milo’s pain. I felt deeply sad that he was the one suffering and not me. I felt frustrated I couldn’t do more to help. I felt a sense of urgency to address his every need.
Simply put, I felt almost…..holy.
I don’t think I’m like saintly for caring for my sick child. That’s what mothers do. But the same feelings I had toward Milo are the same God has for me—always and unconditionally.
Because we are the offspring of God, His spiritual DNA runs through us, and every once in a while when we tap into the reservoirs of goodness within, we act and think like He would.
We are human, yes, but we are also holy. While our personal moments of holiness don’t necessarily cancel out our moments of humanness, I do think they balance them out.
That same person who lost her cool when her two-year-old threw his monster truck is the same person who held her child close and loved him and hurt for him and prayed for him with an intensity I can’t even begin to describe.
We are so human, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t also holy.