A Mother's Lot

Yesterday, Asher and I were enjoying a little bit of one on one time.   He asked to play ball together, which we don't do as often as we should.   Coming off such a great Tarheel victory, I couldn't wait to encourage his ball ability.   We pulled the goal out and as I did, he asked me to make the goal higher.   It had already been raised a little the other day, and so I asked if he was sure.   He was.

We started shooting, him with the hard, small size appropriate basketball.   Not the Nerf kind.  Not the squishy, soft kind.   That's the kind he gave me.   After shooting several times and missing, me being the supportive mother, asked if he wanted me to lower the goal.   He said no.   I asked him if he wanted me to lift him up to make it in.   He said no again.   Or, "uhhh-ohh", which means no.

He continued throwing the ball up, determined to make one in.    But one after the other, they missed.    He started throwing harder, and bending down lower trying to get more leverage.    Nothing.   Finally, he shot one that hit the rim, but was thrown so hard it shot right back down at him, and slammed into his face.    Hard.    

He cried for a few minutes, and as I saw the big red mark on his face, I kissed it and asked if he wanted to stop playing.    He said no.   And then proceeded to get in position again.    Bending low, and having the ball held as rightly as he knew how, he shot it up as hard as he could.  I held my breath, just hoping that this time it would make it in....

It went in.

I marveled at his persistence while wondering if this is what mothers go through.  Do they stand aside, and without helping, allow their children to try their hardest and fail.   Time and time again.   Do they encourage after every attempt, even when the outcome is not success as we would call success.    Do they love on them when they lose, and when they win?    Do they see them get hurt and struggle, only to feel let down one more time?    The answer?   Yes.   Yes, we do.   Because without the struggle there would be no victory.    And without the disappointment, there would be no character built.   Without the pain, there would be no triumph.

I can't help but think of Mary this week.    How she was able to see her sweet Son, who had grown into an amazing man, have to face a trial none of us can imagine.   To be betrayed by the closest of friends.   To be accused unjustly.   To be beaten almost to the point of death, only to have to endure more torture.    To be made sin, when He knew no sin.    To suffer like no one ever has nor ever will.   To feel the grip of death, and to even be given over to it.    To be forsaken by everyone, even His Father.   

The pain that she must have known in those moments is a pain that I do not wish to share.   It is a suffering that I would never ask to have.    But then, I think about how she got to be Jesus' mother.   How she got to see Him live a Holy life.   She was able to help shape Him into a man.    She saw Him do miracles and display God's glory day after day after day.   She saw Him defeat death.    Defeat sin.   Defeat all His enemies, once and for all.    Destroy any grip that death would ever hold on any of us ever again.   And as painful as it must have been, I can't begin to understand the pride she must have had when He rose up from the grave.   That after every bit of pain and suffering, He had relief.   He had healing.    He had victory.

"Let us also lay aside every encumbrance and the sin which so easily entangles us, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of faith, who for the joy set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame, and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.  For consider Him who has endured such hostility by sinners against Himself, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart."   Heb. 12:1-3