The little people really threw me for a loop today. For about an hour, all I could do was shake my head and wave my hand. At a loss, I thought about seeking  feedback from the moms in my Facebook group because at that moment, I just needed a “Yeah, girl” and an “Mmm-hmmm.” But after considering it for a moment, I decided I’d do my usual: sit and stew and fuss.

It’s funny. When I was tearing up my own mama’s house Mama would actually pick up the telephone, not the laptop. She’d commiserate with women who lived around the corner or across town; people she’d see at church, in the grocery store, or at work; friends she touched and talked to on a regular basis. They dropped by the house with potato salad or to borrow a hat for Sunday. These ladies knew each other by the names their own mamas and daddies gave them, not a user name they plucked from the Internet stratosphere to hide behind. Mama recognized her buddies when she saw them live and in person; she didn’t have random LinkedIn connections. Her children played at her friends’ houses, ate their food, and slept in their beds—we even got disciplined right alongside their own children because they knew us and loved us. So, when Mama told Alice what her daughter had done, Alice would offer more than an “Mmm-hmmm.” Alice would say, “I know exactly what you’re talking about because I saw her do that last week when she was here with so-and-so. This is what I told her.”

Thing is, I’m not really of the “It takes a village” mindset. We all know that sometimes our villagers are busy hunting, pitching tents somewhere, burning their own problems at the stake, and chasing after their own wild children. Frankly, when times get tight they won’t have you over for dinner; they may even eat you.

Doesn’t it really just take Jesus? My Friend and Savior is always on the “main line,” as my grandma would sing. He knows my little people so well, better than I know myself—He fashioned the hands that break my stuff, gave them the eyes that refuse to close before midnight, and formed the lips that talk too much, all before I even picked their names or knew they were coming. I can tell God all about it because He wrote the story from beginning to end. For some reason I resort to preaching to my seven-person choir or crying about it by my lonesome when I should really take it to Jesus and leave it there. I can trust Him to lead me in right thinking, to show me when to extend mercy or when to lower the boom. God hides us in His heart, which is a better place than chilling behind my closed bedroom door. He’s cried over His own Son, so He can perfectly comfort me when I wail over my sons and daughters. Through Him, I’m more than an emoji, more than a Facebook friend, more than even a wife and mommy, and more than a conqueror.

“No longer do I call you servants, for a servant does not know what his master is doing; but I have called you friends, for all things that I heard from my Father I have made known to you.” John 15:15

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