There is only one more key to try. This door swings open more easily than the others. But the room is practically bare. Off to one side I see a cushion on the floor. Before it stands a low altar adorned only with a rustic wooden cross, a single candle, and a Bible.
In front of the window sits a pitcher and a bowl with a washcloth and towel draped over a small bench. Have we opened the wrong door? This is supposed to be filled with the most valuable treasure of all. When I first discovered the key to this room, I felt I’d made a mistake. I went back out into the hallway and checked the door again. On it, in letters almost too faded to see, was written servant’s quarters.
There had been no mistake. It was the only room left to explore and the only key left in my hand. Eventually, as years passed, I came to understand. The few simple elements in this room symbolized the tools of a mother’s trade.
Let’s examine first the element of serving—the pitcher and bowl. They are symbolic of servanthood. Perhaps you will remember the scene in the Bible where Jesus knelt and washed His disciples’ feet. He gave them an example to follow. William Barclay, in his Bible study series, interprets the incident in this way:
At that moment when He might have had supreme pride, He had supreme humility. Love is always like that. When, for example, someone falls ill, the person who loves him will perform the most menial services and delight to do them…. Sometimes men feel that they are too distinguished to do the humble things, too important to do some menial task. Jesus was not so. He knew that He was Lord of all, yet He washed His disciples’ feet.[1]
My first reaction to this idea of servanthood went something like this: “Servant? Me? A mother, be a servant? And let my kids take advantage of me? No way. I refuse to be a slave to my kids.” Eventually, as I worked my way through life, I saw motherhood for what it really is—a servant’s job.
Help Wanted … Professional Mother
If you were to run an advertisement for a mom, your ad might look something like this:
WANTED: Mother. Salary: $00. No retirement, no insurance, no guarantees. Bonuses for a job well done may include a few hugs and kisses. Skills required: Must love children, cats, dogs, hamsters, and fish. Must be able to cook peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and chocolate chip cookies and other good stuff. Must like to drive a car full of kids to the zoo. Must have nursing experience for kissing owies, and lots of bandages. Must be able to love a kid, even when he’s rotten….
It’s slave labor, right? Why do we do it? Well … because. Sometimes it’s a terrific, satisfying, and even fun job. Nothing tugged at my motherly heartstrings more than those times when I
… watched my baby nurse contentedly in my arms.
… tenderly brushed aside a tangle of curls from the moist brow of a sleeping child.
There are times when it takes a little longer to appreciate our job as a mother. Such was the case with Julie.
Julie is a divorced, working mom. One day as she trudged back home after a long day at the office, she was not in the mood for her two kids, Daniel, age four, and Kim, three. The day had gone as sour as the milk she’d left on the counter that morning, and Julie felt about as cranky as an unmilked cow.
She grumbled at her kids. “Oh … why can’t you kids ever put your toys away? And Daniel, you left your shoes in the living room again.” She hovered dangerously close to tears as she surveyed the mess.
“Mom?” Daniel started to ask his four hundred and fiftieth question since she’d picked them up at the sitter’s.
Without giving him a chance to finish she snapped, “If you call me Mom one more time, I’ll send you to your room without supper.”
Daniel ran into his room sobbing, and guilt hovered over her like a hawk, talons outstretched, swooping in for the kill.
Julie sighed deeply and sank into the nearest chair. She wondered why she had ever decided to have kids in the first place. “All I ever do is give, give, give. But do I ever get anything in return?” Right in the middle of her pity party, two small arms crept around her neck from behind and a gentle whisper chased away all her regrets. “I still love you, Mommy.”
At times, as with any job, mothering can be a thankless position. But being a servant mom doesn’t mean we have to do everything or be Super Mom. We’ve already seen the perils of such folly. But it may mean putting some of our plans on hold while we help our children grow up. It may mean spending time serving in the Mom Corps.
Maybe nobody would answer an ad for the job of being a mother, but if a mother doesn’t do it, who will?
Above and Beyond the Call of Duty
Not only doesn’t the job of mothering pay very well, but mothers get no respect. Chances are, we won’t be noticed or appreciated as we carry out the job of mothering. Few mothers are ever decorated for valor in providing services above and beyond the call of duty. Yet above and beyond is exactly what we are called to do.
Although we won’t often receive recognition or praise for many of our behind-the-scenes duties, that’s no reason to feel discouraged. We’ve been led, by advertisers and marketing specialists, to expect more out of life than an occasional “Thanks, Mom,” or “I love you.”
Perhaps a modern mother’s dream is to waltz into the dining room with a full-course dinner and actually have someone notice that she used a polyunsaturated oil instead of bacon grease.
And what mother wouldn’t smile while cleansing the toilet bowl as her wide-eyed little cherub gazed over her shoulder in amazement at the white tornado magically swooshing through the grime?
Do you think kids really care if their clothes feel snuggly soft and smell like fabric softener? And how many kids have you met recently who would say, “Oh, look, the plates are so shiny I can see myself,” as they set the table (without complaint) for dinner?
This is the real world, Mom. A place where kids move too fast to smell clean underwear along the way. If we’re lucky, they’ll notice that we’ve sorted and folded their clean clothes and neatly laid them on their beds. If we’re lucky, they’ll put them in their drawers, rather than let them fall to the floor as they absently throw back the covers. If we’re lucky, they won’t stay on the floor, only to be scooped up a week later, never worn, to be laundered again.
There are many things we mothers do for which we’ll never get recognition, such as washing 6,200 diapers in a single year, or kissing 102 owies to make them all better. But didn’t Jesus say, “… whoever would be great among you must be your servant … even as the Son of man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many” (Matt. 20:26–28 RSV)?
However, this doesn’t mean we are to indulge ourselves in all the behind-the-scenes jobs around the house. If you are doing too many things that go unnoticed or unappreciated, perhaps your children aren’t doing enough. I firmly believe children should be given an equal share in household chores. We wouldn’t want to keep them from receiving their reward in heaven, would we?
I have always been an equal-opportunity-employment mother. By providing the kids with a map and simple instructions, I made sure my children could find their way to the laundry room, bathrooms, and kitchen during cleaning time.
At first, handing the tasks I had religiously hoarded for years over to my kids wasn’t easy. I suffered pangs of jealousy and selfishness. I wanted to keep the joys of motherhood all to myself. “They can’t do the job as well as I can,” I mused. Finally, I gave in. After all, I reasoned, my mother had always taught me to share.
So what if the towels weren’t always perfectly folded or a red shirt occasionally tinted all the white clothes pink—I had to think of the children.
As a mother, how could I deny a child the thrill of washing dishes, clothing, floors, and bathrooms? Could you withhold from a child the adventure of attacking dust, armed with only a can of Pledge and a dustcloth?
It’s possible that your child won’t agree with your unselfish act. Perhaps the word can’t will become the new four-letter word in your kid’s vocabulary. For times like this you may want to brush up on quick comebacks like:
“That’s tough.”
“Dirt and Ty-D-Bol wait for no man.”
“Life is hard.”
Naturally, as children share in the tasks, they also need to learn what it’s like not to be awarded a medal for everything. A child should learn what it feels like to spend hours cleaning the kitchen, only to have it messed up again at the next meal.
A kid needs a mother who will allow the child to learn what it takes to keep a household running (not necessarily smoothly—just running).
As children learn to serve by helping out around the house, they can learn some valuable lessons, such as:
Be careful, however. If your children are included in the family work force, they may come to appreciate what you do for them.
Being a servant involves more than just doing a job that nobody else wants, or teaching your children by letting them serve.
You’ve Come a Long Way, Baby
The idea of servanthood covers our entire way of life. It means to set aside all selfish desires and focus not on yourself but on the needs of others. I have to admit that submission, humility, and the idea of being least have gotten some bad publicity of late.
This teaching of counting others better than myself could get me in trouble with many, perhaps even a majority, of women today. I’ve heard that if I want to move up in the world I must think of myself. I’ve got to look out for Number One because if I don’t look out for me, who will?
But when I focus too long on me, on my rights, on what’s best for Mommy, to the exclusion of my children, I feel … I don’t know … off balance. Does that make sense? I think it’s because that’s not the way God wants me to be.
Being a servant mother doesn’t mean getting walked on, or never doing things for ourselves.
Serving means giving encouragement, love, compassion, tenderness, and comfort to our children and others (Phil. 2:1).
Serving means to “do nothing from selfishness or conceit, but in humility count others better than yourselves” (Phil. 2:3 RSV).
Serving means we must “look not only to [our] own interests, but also to the interests of others” (Phil. 2:4 RSV).
Interestingly enough, it is that servantlike attitude I use as a nurse in dealing with my patients. Patients are important, but aren’t children even more so?
A servant’s attitude should be the same as Christ’s, “who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, taking the form of a servant …” (Phil. 2:6–7 RSV).
Now maybe you’re wondering how to apply this idea of servanthood in your family. Here’s a suggestion:
Take out the basin and pitcher, or better yet, just use a little baby oil. Now, ask one of your kids to take off his shoes and socks (then make him wash his feet). Ready? Massage his feet with the warmed oil, about five minutes per foot. Chances are (unless you kept him from an important game or something) the foot massage will have him ready to obey your every command.
Actually, all kidding aside, washing or massaging another person’s feet breaks down pride on both sides. It’s an intimate, loving gesture. And, oh … does it feel good.
My understanding of the benefits of becoming a servantlike mother came at about the same time I realized the need for God in my life.
Things Go Better with God
As I grew and developed as a mother, I came to realize one important fact: Without God, I could never have survived mothering.
Oh, I know there are skeptics out there who would laugh at me for saying that, but it’s true. In my children’s earlier years, although I believed in God, I didn’t really know I could lean on Him when times got tough. I thought if I tried hard enough I could eventually become the kind of mother my psychology books and Mother’s Day cards told me I should be.
In the beginning of my time as a mother, I was like a delicate pink rosebud—fresh, innocent, with all the fragrant ideals of motherhood stored inside me. I stood ready to burst into bloom. I (even though others before me never seemed to quite make it) would be the perfect Mother Rose.
As I held my first child in my arms and watched him hungrily search for milk, I was even more convinced I could reach my goal. My son, David, needed me, and I wasn’t about to let him down.
The first few months went beautifully. My petals glowed with health and happiness. Then my adorable baby boy began to crawl (into everything), and my life hasn’t been the same since.
As my expectations collapsed, so did my strength. Just as David turned two, our second child was born. I should have known there’d be trouble. Caryl didn’t particularly want to leave her cozy amniotic sac and took two weeks to make up her mind.
In spite of the difficulties I’d been encountering, I vowed (as she lay curled up beside me) that I could still be a fantastic mother.
I tried. I failed. Caryl turned out to be a colicky baby. Naturally I blamed myself. What was I doing wrong? Failure to comfort her led to irritation, frustration, angry words, and tears. I wanted to scream—to send her back. Mothers weren’t supposed to feel that way.
A petal wilted—crushed by false hopes and expectations.
I vowed my children and I would survive the terrible twos together. We did, but not without a few fights. The bumps and thumps and no’s added up to one great big emotional bruise for their mom.
More petals fell and drifted to the floor in defeat.
On the outside I pretended to be smooth and perfectly balanced. And with a few petals missing, that wasn’t an easy task. I walked, talked, and acted like a good mother should. No one knew of the confusion and hurt I felt as the thorns along my sides seemed to turn inward to pierce my flesh. No one guessed the dew that clung to my petals in the morning light had been tears from the long night before.
By the time my children were eight and ten, all pretense was gone. I had failed. The perfect-mother image took a nose dive as I sat in the pew of our church one Sunday morning and glanced at my “well groomed” son. Shock ricocheted through my body. How could I have missed it? He’d looked absolutely dashing when we left the house. But now … from under his neatly pressed suit pants peeked the ragged hem of an old pair of jeans … and below that … (gasp) tennis shoes. Tucked under his white shirt and tie I could make out the plaid of an old, frayed flannel shirt.
“Why?” I asked him.
He shrugged and turned up the corners of his mouth in an impish grin. “Superman does it. Besides, I wanted to be ready to play faster when we get to Grandma’s farm.”
Great, I thought to myself. He’s playing Superman, and my reputation is ruined.
Oh, it wasn’t just the clothes—that I could have handled. It just seemed as if nothing I ever did was good enough anymore. I not only didn’t meet my goal to be better than other mothers, I was falling behind them.
My petals had all wilted and fallen, my stem lay broken and torn. I tried to make it alone—to pull myself back together again—but I was too far gone. I’d lost faith in myself as a mother because of all the things I couldn’t do.
As I lay there in my brokenness, I began to think about God. Where was He? I’d stored Him away, thinking I could make it through motherhood on my own. I wondered at first what use it would be to ask Him back into my life. After all, I’d deserted Him. He had every right to turn me down.
I’d made a mess of things and didn’t think even God could want me now. But even as I thought it through, God had begun working to restore me. I still had a family who needed me and in spite of everything, I loved them. I wasn’t ready to give up, so I prayed a very simple prayer. I just said, “God, help!”
God, like a Master Gardener, nurtured my roots with the living water of His Word. He pruned away the dead stems and blossoms, fertilized me with truth, and restored me to life.
A kid needs a mom who needs God. I am a better mother (not perfect) because I live in the strength God gives me. I love my children because He first loved me, as I have ex-pressed in this poem.
He gives me hope in hopeless situations,
And helps me see the rainbow
On the other side of rain.
He heals the thorn-infested wounds
That I might smell the roses.
He gives me tears to wash away the pain;
Oh, but then … then …
He gives me joy so I can laugh again.
If in my job as mother I have done one thing right, it was to instill in my children the truth of needing and loving God.
“You Believed in Me”
There is yet another part of being a servant mother. Remember the cushion and altar in the room marked servant’s quarters? I spent a lot of time praying for my children. By praying for them, I believed God would hear my prayers and give me the faith I needed to believe in them.
“Mom,” my daughter, Caryl, once said, “the most important thing you ever did as a mother was to believe in me.”
I did and do believe in my children. I wish I could say I never doubted whether or not they’d even survive their teen-age years. My children weren’t aware of most of the doubts, or that it was God working through me who managed to keep me believing everything would work out. In the bleakest moments, when I paced the floor at night wondering if I’d ever see my runaway teenage son again, it was my belief and faith in God that allowed me to see beyond the past and present into a hopeful future. God’s promises gave me the strength to hold on—promises such as: “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning” (Ps. 30:5 nkjv) and “All things work together for good to those who love God” (Rom. 8:28 nkjv).
In my weakness I learned how to lean on God to regain my strength and know that His grace was sufficient for me. When I realized He held the controls in my children’s lives, believing in them became easy again.
I don’t believe my children are infallible and will never make mistakes. But I do believe they are in God’s hands. As my paraphrase of Isaiah 43:1–3 says:
The LORD has called them by name, they are His. When they pass through the waters He will be with them; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm them; when they walk through fire they shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume them. For He is the LORD their God, the Holy One of Israel, their Savior.
How can I be so sure of these biblical promises?
“It’s a Miracle, Mom”
A few years ago, we received a call from the police in Montana.
“We’ve found a pickup your son was traveling in—totaled. It had been driven over a cliff and David’s trunk was found near the wreck. We found a lot of blood in the truck and around it, but no sign of your son or the boy he was with.”
For four days I had no idea whether my son was alive or dead. I had nowhere to turn but to the Lord. I spent my days in constant prayer. On the fourth day he called home. He and his friend had been on the run, since the truck had been stolen. David had reached the end of his rope and needed our help. We told him to come home. His ordeal prompted him to turn his life around. In telling us his story he said, “It was a miracle, Mom. People get killed in crashes like that, but all we got were a few cuts and bruises.” When they walk through the fire they shall not be burned.
Children need a mother who realizes their potential and helps them believe they can achieve it—even if some of her believing power comes from a higher source.
Sometimes a mother’s world seems dark and cold. If you are a mother who lives in shades of darkness, come back into the room. Remember the candle on the altar? Light it.
Now, kneel on the cushion and ask Jesus to come into your heart and be the light of your world. Then keep the candle lit in the altar of your heart as a remembrance. Whenever darkness closes in, look at that candle and know … that all the darkness in the world can’t put out this single light.
The greatest thing about all these treasures is that they are free. God has given us the keys. Now all we have to do is use them.
As we move along through the chambers of our mansion, let’s try the first key on the door marked Time.