You can’t keep safe what wants to break.   Jimmy Eat World, “Always Be”

The cashier had nearly finished bagging our groceries when The Husband palmed his back pocket and turned to me, eyes wide. “Where’s my wallet?” he asked in that way spouses do because I’m supposed to know where he put his things and he’s supposed to know how to fix mine. He went out to check the car while I hiked The Kid up on my hip and rued the moment I decided not to bring my wallet because the diaper bag is heavy enough already. Seconds later, he called–en route to our house. And that is how TK and I wound up in Target jail on Sunday, gazing at our cart in lockdown behind the customer service counter until TH came back to rescue us and our food.

I know of no greater levelers of playing fields and pride than grace and parenting.

Last week was a tough one. Thursday, in particular, kicked my ass. TK had an early PT session and was especially tearful about it. I, knowing I had a conference with his daycare teacher followed by a visit to my doctor, was already on edge. The sight of TK’s Cry Face frayed the edges of my big girl pants. By the time I delivered him to his classroom and sat down with his teacher, I was a walking open wound. We talked about his neck, about how his therapist is confounded as to his tilt persistence, and then she brought up his lack of spoken words, and the dam I had been working on all day with blocks of pride and self-reliance just crumbled. My throat thickened, my nose ran, and I panicked as I felt the tears coming.

And here’s the ugly, ugly truth behind the panic–because there is no part of me that pride hasn’t touched, no corner of my being unaffected by The Fall–and you should know that. We live in a broken, messy world, but the biggest mess is within ourselves, and here was mine on Thursday: there was a part of me that did not want to give in to the humiliation of crying in front of my son’s teacher for the simple reason that I have a “doctor” in front of my name and she wears an apron all day.

I kind of want to throw up as I write that, because along with racism and classism and all the other un-PC things our world outwardly abhors, these biases are not allowed among “good people.” But mainly I want to throw up because of what it reveals about me: that one of the most painful things that can happen to me is getting humbled. And that I am often not one of the good people.

The woman in the apron came in for a hug and said she understood–she has a son TK’s age. And I saw the bridge that grace builds after the dam of pride is leveled.

Thank God I am not just the person I am at home as I curse at crumbs on the floor, or just the person I am at work when I miss a diagnosis, or just the person I am in a conference with a teacher. Thank God that though my journey started out Javert-heavy, I am on a trajectory that leaves me looking a little more Valjean-ish every day, and this is love’s work. I was once a rule-follower; now I am a grace-receiver. The biggest jumps on this path have occurred during fits of acknowledged brokenness, embarrassing tears, honest appraisals, raw confessions. The world is tidy and ordered to a rule-follower; to a grace-receiver it can be terrifyingly messy and unsettling. This is what coming to terms with my lack of control looks like. But it turns out that there’s so much more wisdom in “I don’t know” than in “look what I did.”

After a tough day at work last week (did I mention that last week suuuucked?), I drove home beaten down, and that’s where the voice found me: at the end of myself. “Good thing I don’t love you because of what kind of dentist you are,” I heard, and I laughed at the simplicity of a message that has circumvented my heart so often. I still, after all this time, tend toward keeping score of my achievements, and this sucks the joy right out of life. Cleaning TK’s scraps of food off the floor is a thankless job with no one watching–no awards show for that–but the other night as I did it, teeth gritted, I looked up and saw his tiny feet waving from the booster seat. Are you slaving away at a hot stove, or feeding your family? Are you wiping floors, or washing feet? 

There is a part of me that thinks I deserve a statue or cape for the stuff I do, when real life and grace and community are found among the self-acknowledged broken, who openly compare wounds with tears and laughter, who daily wash feet and seldom talk about it. Apron or lab coat, there is a place where we are all the same, a moment when we are on the floor. How we view the world from there makes all the difference.