Living in the Interruptions

I’m not the most type-A person that I know—in fact, I spent most of my life thinking I was a TJ on the Meyer-Briggs scale before realizing I am actually an FP who does a pretty good job of being a TJ when externally motivated—but as a parent, there is some degree of planning that has to happen for your life to remain sane. Packing wipes, activities, snacks in case the kids get messy, bored, hungry. Being scheduled about naps and bedtimes so I can have some alone time. Having a lesson, craft, or outing in mind for the morning.

There’s nothing more frustrating than an interruption in my plans. He throws three tantrums in a row and there go my hopes for a nice morning out. She becomes petrified by an ant on her foot and we have to head home from the playground. She throws a fit that I can’t find the song she wants in the car and there goes our nice peaceful drive. D is even more planned than me, and he often says what stresses him out the most about parenting is that element of the constant unknown—the worst was when they were younger and in that stage where you were never sure if they would sleep through the night. I don’t think he’s slept well since going through that the first time around.

But then I think about my life and how many things have not gone to plan. I think about how even though we’d like to think our plans will make us happy, true happiness doesn’t come from the circumstantial but the unseen, and the unseen grows more through unexpected situations that are a result of God’s sovereignty than through what we thought we wanted.

And I am increasingly convinced that the most spiritually significant parenting that I do often occurs in how I respond to interruptions in our day. Sure, I can plan for Bible lessons, sing hymns, model prayer, and I do, but what probably makes a bigger impression on her is how I react to her whining, or disobedience, or fears. In those situations, there is no doubt that her reaction is objectively wrong, or disproportionate, and I would be right to react in anger or frustration, and I often have (it’s bad when you find yourself arguing with a four year-old), but I can also transform it into a gospel moment. I can draw a deeper lesson out of it about misplaced desires that take us from the better things that God wants for us, or about fears that we all have and the freedom from anxiety that only God can give, or about what forgiveness really means.

All that requires that I stop to gain a certain level of insight into her underlying emotional needs in the moment, and that I’m at a pretty reasonable place myself. But I’m trying to realize that it’s not all lost if misbehavior or accidents ruin the plans I have for the day. Sometimes, life happens in the interruptions—that’s where it’s all at, and stewing over how inconvenient they are is counterproductive. And that’s how the best moments come anyway: surprisingly. Like when she said out of the blue the other day that she wanted God to be in her heart. When they give each other spontaneous hugs. When we see something pretty on a walk and I can explain how nature works. When they lie all heavy against you in the middle of the night during a thunderstorm. Some of the best things in life I couldn’t plan for even if I tried.