Grace Floats

On Sundays, I dread it when it's my turn to take Z to sunday school (which starts right before the sermon). The class starts with singing, so Z usually heads straight under a table. I have a really hard time being patient when I just want to go listen to the sermon. Every time I see him resisting joining the group, hiding under tables, or worse, trying to run out of the building, I honestly just wish he was like the other kids. Why can't he just sit on the rug like everyone else?

This Sunday, he was doing pretty well. I got him to sit next to me on the rug and as I participated in the songs, so did he. But just a few feet away from us there were these perfect little easter-egg colored balloons tied to a chair. As we came in we speculated together on what they were for and how special it was that just his class had them. It was a helpful incentive for him to want to go to class. But then, the balloons were just too tempting and he went over to see them. I followed quickly after him and told him right away that he couldn't touch them. They were only tied once around the arm of the chair. One light tug and the balloon would fly up to the high ceiling- out of reach. But Z HAD to touch them. He pulled at one and I managed to catch it just in time. My heart jumped in my throat at the near miss, imagining the class being one short of "enough" balloons. I'm sure the look on my face wasn't very patient as I emphasized again the importance of leaving them alone and if all the balloons got loose that no one would have the treat of having one and then someone will be sad... and then...

Z ran his fingers across those loosely-tied ribbons...
and I grasped and lunged and saved quite a few but six or seven balloons floated away. My face turned red, my blood surged. If I wasn't at church I'm not sure what might have come out of my mouth. I pseudo-calmly walked the remaining balloons over to one of the teachers and then grabbed Z's hand and walked him down the hall away from his class. I started to berate him about how he didn't listen and that was EXACTLY what I told him would happen and now not all of the kids would get balloons... and...

Then I saw his face.
He was very upset and about to cry. He started to get angry and said that he didn't want to be Z anymore. "I'm going to change my name." "I don't like being me." He even hit his chest with his fist. Oh, man. Did that change my tune. I asked him if he was upset because he didn't control himself. He said yes.
Deep breath. Praise God I had enough self control of my own to calm down and talk to him about asking for forgiveness when we sin. I told him I was glad he was sad about disobeying me and doing something that could take something special away from his friends. But that our sin was the reason Jesus came. And we all make mistakes and we all sin. But Jesus forgives us. And I forgive you. I made him look right in my eyes and I said that two or three times: I forgive you.

Eventually we went back to the group and he joined in. Shortly after, as I was walking back to the auditorium, I kept thinking about how hard I was on him about the balloons. That rage that welled up inside me. I realized how much of it was connected to embarrassment. All those balloons bobbing away and me and Z right there, the cause of it all because my son doesn't listen to me. And disappointment. Why is it always my kid who does stuff like that? Why can't he sit on the rug like everyone else? I let my concern for what others think about me be more important than my son.

I stewed on that for a while and replayed over and over in my head how it all happened and maybe I should have done this instead. Or who in their right mind ties balloons just once on the arm of a chair with a bunch of KIDS around? (Blame is always an easy defense mechanism.) And how mean was my face when I was talking to him? And how hard did I grab his little hand?

And then I remembered that I had just told Z he was forgiven. I told him that when something is forgiven that we forget about it and, when possible, see if we can make amends (maybe Papa will be able to reach the balloons if he stands on the table). And I told him that I didn't want him to be upset about it anymore or say mean things about himself. And there I was upset and dwelling on my own sin. And calling myself names. And not forgetting it. How can I show my son forgiveness when I don't accept God's forgiveness of me?

It was one of those times when I literally prayed, "Okay, God. I get it." Just like Z when he says: "I already know that, Ma!" I wonder if God chuckles at me like I do at Z: "Well, then, why do I have to remind you so often?"