There is a children's book called The Story of Ferdinand. In it a young bull grows up contentedly in the pasture, is suddenly and shockingly thrown into the bull ring, and if you haven't read it you really should because it has a cute ending and adorable black and white illustrations.
I have been thinking about my season of motherhood lately, trying to view it as through a telescope. I need to get a far off perspective because I am tired and overwhelmed and also keenly aware that these days are expiring more and more quickly. My children's wrists are losing their chubby creases and their faces are lenthening, their muscles starting to be more defined. They are getting faster and faster and stronger every day. It struck me recently that I am not molding small pots, but rather I am watching as these boys, these arrows, fly by me at the speed of light. When I can I reach out and touch one, I leave my mark on it or adjust its course, but only very quickly and often subtly. They don't sit or listen long enough for me to train them up as a professor teaches his students; I have to just stick out my hand and graze them if I want to leave any impression at all.
These boys are fast approaching manhood, and though it seems preposterous right now, it is always that way, is it not? I remember working at a horse farm in middle school and one of the mares was pregnant. It was a small farm, and there was only this one pregnant horse so we young girls watched her as though she were Cinderella transforming at the hand of the fairy godmother. We were awestruck by the whole process and came as quickly as our moms could drive us when she finally gave birth. We arrived in the early quiet of morning before the sun had even risen halfway into the sky. There was this colt, this wobbly beautiful baby, and we were instantly in love. He was named Jet, and as his name would suggest he was suddenly a strapping young stallion; it happened so fast we didn't see it coming. The whole process of his growth was fascinating and startling; we marveled at his youthful energy and stubbornness and started in surprise when he nipped at our hands. We giggled at his progress and learned to fear his unbroken strength. The only way he became a capable, rideable gentleman was at the hands of the farm owner, a woman we all feared (as much as we feared Jet's youthful strength) and admired (a little less than we admired the horses, to be frank.)
Sometimes my fellas seem like this colt, with their unbridled strength, passion, and wilfulness. I try to bridle it every day, but sometimes it is all I can do to keep up with them. Thinking of the story of Ferdinand gives me a little lense into their youth and boy-ness. Jonathan reminds me of a bull at pasture, rough and strong and content in his field. William seems to often find himself in the china shop, and things get broken sometimes. Sam was born in the ring and lives there. He came into the world with a red flag in his face and has been attacking that thing ever since with a passion that will soon require restraint. I am not eager for the attempt.
These handsome young bulls of mine are the most complimentary gift the Lord has ever given me. To think that He believes in me to handle their wildness, joy, and stubbornness is amazing to me. All too often I don't believe I'm up to the task. I feel my humanity keenly and it feels like there is a great gulf between my energy, intelligence, and strength and their youth.
Perhaps this is the very reason God gave them to me, or one of them at least: When I do manage to touch them as they shoot through the sky, there is a moment, and it is ever so brief, in which I feel like I am flying too.
"Like arrows in the hands of a warrior are children born in one's youth." Psalm 127:4
"But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles. They will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint." Isaiah 40:31
"I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me." Philippians 4:13
