Truckin’


Here’s the song reference.

Our house was filled with the sound of sirens yesterday morning.  All of our little blessings have a great love for cars and trucks, but none more so than Baby Guy, who is at his happiest when surrounded by toy rescue vehicles.  Any car trip he takes is punctuated by little exclamations of “Fiwe twuck!” and “Poweeeeeese caa!”  There are days when his passion for said toys exceeds his desire to eat, and Monday was one of them.  I was a simmering, grey-haired cauldron of frustration at my absolute inability to get our youngest child to sit decently in a chair and eat a waffle and grapes.

Initially, it didn’t help when a large plastic fire truck, sirens wailing, collided painfully with my talus.  I whirled around, wincing, to excoriate the little offender, but stilled my tongue when I saw Baby Guy standing there with his arms spread wide and his face consumed by a huge and hopeful grin.

“Fiwe twuck, Mommy?”

I sighed and cast a rueful glance at the plate containing his nearly untouched breakfast before bending down, reversing the little truck’s direction, and giving it a gentle push back towards the waiting Baby Guy.  He chortled and clapped his wee hands merrily as the fire truck came to rest an inch from his little toes, then pushed it back to me.  We passed about five minutes playing fire truck catch, and his complete, delighted absorption in our game dissipated my frustration.  I laughed along with him, forgetting about the stickiness of the kitchen floor, the uneaten breakfast, the pile of books awaiting inclusion in lesson plans, the dog hair bunnies infesting the areas under the living room furniture.

 

As I reluctantly turned from our game to start the morning chores, I heard Sunday’s homily ringing through my head.  A piece of advice – bookmark that link, and the next time you’re angry because you feel like everyone else is doing something fun or interesting and you’re stuck doing all the scutwork, listen to it.  Twice.  Once again, I’d been schooled by a two-year-old.  I’d forgotten to rejoice in the day because I was so caught up in mundane minutiae, and instead of radiating love and offering the best work of my hands to the Lord, I was permeating the air around me with sourness and anger.  In that moment, my calling was to play fire trucks with a little boy, not to scrub the floor. My calling was to make sure that Baby Guy knew that he was more important than waffles, papers, books, and dirt.

Today’s prayer:  Lord, thank You for Your little blessings, who frequently remind me of what really matters, that we are to love one another instead of fretting over things.  Thank You for the joyful moments that sound like toy fire truck sirens and toddler giggles.  Please, Lord, help me teach Your blessings that it’s not the books, the dirt, or the breakfast that matter most to You, but the gifts of self we freely give.

And please, Lord, if today is the day You call Your faithful canine servant Bo to you, let his passing be gentle for both him and Your blessings.

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2 thoughts on “Truckin’

  1. Oh, rejoicing in every day is one of the most difficult spiritual goals for me. Looking at the world through the eyes of my children helps a lot, though. I will keep you guys and Bo in my heart today.

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