Handstands

I was inching my way into the lake to meet my children on a recent 98* day, taking baby steps because why is submerging your belly in water so hard? Why is it so much colder than when I was a kid?  Where is the research on why children can plunge into cold water without a thought, but we mothers are left taking tiny steps until we finally bite the bullet and duck our boobs into the water? Can we get a Netflix special on the science behind this? Or at least a Magic School Bus episode? Come on, Ms. Frizzle, help us out. 

I looked up to see two mothers’ legs rising up from the water in two majestic handstands. There they were, the skirts of their mom-approved suits succumbing to gravity, their toes pointed in perfect Dominique Moceanu form, their thighs marked by stretch marks and cellulite, all four legs, gloriously pointing towards the sun. 

As they emerged from the water, almost simultaneously, they looked at each other and burst out laughing, trying to figure out who had stayed down longer. And because I have a penchant for talking with strangers, I began to lightly applaud them both and compliment their form, and they asked me who had won. 

We chatted a few more minutes, and I found out that these two moms were playing hooky for the day. Their kids were still in summer school; one’s husband was out of town, and they’d decided to come to the beach with only their towels and a bag of cherries - not a diaper bag or set of floaties to be seen between them. They’d made a pact to spend the day like kids, ice cream trucks and underwater handstands included. 

Upon their request, I judged their next handstand, handing out imaginary points for uprightness and duration and then let them be while I turned to my own kids who were quietly bobbing beside me in their floaties and questioning all my stranger-danger lectures with their eyes and tapping their imaginary watches while they waited for me to play motorboat with them. 

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The image of those mama-legs stayed with me long after we’d left the beach and littered the floor of our minivan with another layer of sand. I thought about their pointed toes while I hung the towels out to dry, and I visualized their dimpled thighs pointing heavenward; I heard their laughter as they both came up and drew deep breaths as I threw our swimsuits in the washing machine. 

I was struck with how these two women had made a pact and granted themselves freedom for a day.

Freedom from responsibility, yes, but freedom to PLAY.

They made no excuses. They did not disclaim their cellulite. They were not apologetic about their laughter that was so explosive that it caught the attention of the teenage lifeguard on shore. 

It made me think of Jesus and the age-old story of how he engaged a group of children (Matthew 19). Of course, we know about the disciples, and how they embodied everyone’s least favorite librarian, looking down their noses at this group of grimy kids, their hands sticky and feet somehow always sweaty, and how they tried to shush and shoo them all away. 

And of course, we know about Jesus’ response. How he scolded the disciples, telling them that his very kingdom belonged to people like these kids, and probably reminding them of how just yesterday (Matthew 18) he’d told them that to enter his kingdom, you need to become like a child (raise your hand if you too have to repeat yourself multiple times before your kids remember something!).

What we don’t hear is what the parents were saying. I can imagine a mother whispering with simmering rage from the sidelines, commanding her kid to Come. Back. Here. Right. Now. I can imagine a helpless mother of the 23-month old, who not only made his way into Jesus’ lap but was now sticking leaves in Jesus’ hair and how she half-hid her face behind her hand in embarrassment. I can imagine myself, power-walking towards my three kids and grimacing as I reminded them to stop asking so many questions. 

We mothers tend to apologize for curiosity, disclaim our kids’ play, like last week when my two younger children absolutely bathed themselves with baseball field dust like a herd of hot elephants during the fourth inning of my oldest’s game, garnering some serious side-eye from the crowd on the bleachers.

But Jesus commands the disciples and the crowds of embarrassed parents to let them be, and what’s more, he encourages us to look to our children and learn from them. 

For years, I interpreted this verse in terms of “childlike trust,” and yes, every time my five-year-old places his hand in mine as we walk, I think of these kids that Jesus pointed us to as stellar examples of his kingdom. 

But I also think of Isaiah 40:11 when we learn that God is gentle with those mama ewes who have young. And have you ever seen a baby lamb? They are nothing but playful. Even the way they walk is inefficient - all bounces and hops and lacking direction or purpose. Lambs do not walk with intention. They are not walking with a purpose. Their minds are not singularly set on survival and grass because they know with one little lamby bleat, their mothers will come running with more than enough milk.

And that too, is a picture of trust. 

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Recently, a friend told me about a book she’d read. Unfortunately, the book is in Polish, but fortunately, my friend is wildly fluent in both Polish and English and was able to give me the run-down. One of the concepts in the book is that there are different personas (stay with me, I’m not talking schizophrenia) in each of us. There is the manager who perpetually has nineteen things on her to-do list (I like to think that she’s the cousin of my Enneagram 1 Inner Critic Agnes). But there’s also a wild girl in each of us, who wants to watch light dance on the kitchen floor, who wants to listen to wind as it blows through cottonwood leaves, who wants to read a book in a hammock, who wants to play. The book argues that we have to sideline the manager sometimes, and unlock the windowless basement room where we’ve tied up the wild girl and let her out.

My manager is loud and bossy, but I want to lean in close to hear the whispered invitation of Jesus to childlike joy and wonder. I want to practice childlike trust both for the crossings of busy streets and for the freedom to lay aside the heavy burden of my calendar on the sand and dive into the freedom of the water for which Jesus sent me free. 

Here we are in August, the last true month of summer break, and I am committing to letting my own inner wild girl have a say. I’m committing to doing at least one thing a day that meets her needs, even as the manager stands to the side, compulsively looking at her watch and anxiously tapping her foot. 

I would love to know...what does your wild girl want to do? What is one thing you could do today to let her out of the basement? Would you join me in experimenting this month with what it’s like to let her have a say about your day too? Comment and tell me what your wild girl is up to this month.