This morning my 7-year-old came to me, chest puffed out, and said “Mom? Give me something hard to do today. Something really hard…but it can’t be any kind of cleaning.”
I thought about it for a minute, and then went to our little crawlspace under the stairs. I pulled out a 300-piece puzzle, and walked the box over to him.
He looked at it carefully, with a seriousness in his face. Then he said, “Time me. I’ll have this done in 37 minutes.”
“37 minutes my ass,” I chuckled under my breath.
It’s not that I don’t believe in my kid…it’s just that sometimes I actually don’t believe in my kid. He was either gonna bail out in the first 10 minutes, or spend the next 18 months dedicating his life to this project. I silently prayed for the 18-month option. Him having a quiet, independent hobby that didn’t involve the possibility of death, would be a welcome relief.
Then I went back to the dishes.
37 minutes later the timer went off on my watch, and I headed upstairs, calling his name. Before I could reach his bedroom door, he came sauntering out with all the confidence of da Vinci after painting the Mona Lisa.
“I’m finished.” He smirked. “Come see.”
I stepped into his cluttered little bedroom, and there it was, it all it’s glory….
He stood next to it, beaming.
I stood next to him, utterly terrified.
It was obviously all wrong. Actually, it was like…beyond wrong, to the level of “massively jacked up”. Backwards pieces. Upside down pieces. Flat edges facing in and jagged edges facing out. Suddenly, my mind flashed forward to him in the nursing home, 80 years from now, being told in a gentle voice by the Activities Coordinator that, due to several complaints from the other residents, he would no longer be allowed to participate in group puzzle nights.
I felt nauseous. My OCD was in the midst of a brutal attack.
Fortunately, at this point in parenthood, I’m able to do this thing with my face where it looks like I’m pleased and impressed, no matter how displeased and unimpressed I am.
I picked up the box with a very exaggerated, confused look on my face, and held the picture out for him to see.
“That puzzle doesn’t look like this picture, buddy. I’m not sure you did it right.”
He took the cover of the box out of my hands and studied it hard. He looked from the picture, to the puzzle, and back to the picture again.
“No….” He said slowly, still figuring things out in his mind. Then I watched as he steadied himself and said with certainty… “No. The picture is wrong. The way I did it is the way it’s ACTUALLY supposed to be.” Then he walked out of the room, and continued living his life.
Kids are so fantastic at wrecking our worlds, and then moving right along. I thought about what he said all day. I went in and out of his room a dozen times…standing over the puzzle….
Feeling nauseous.
Staring.
Needing to fix it.
But then finally, deciding that maybe my kid is a genius and it’s perfect the way it is. I mean, look at it. It’s wild, and free, and totally organic. It is unencumbered by “shoulds” and “ought to’s” and the expectations of people who think it needs to look a certain way. The manner in which the pieces are strung together is messy and chaotic in places, but they all connect to make a strangely brave and beautiful masterpiece.
I think Earth is this place with billions of supernatural puzzle pieces laying all over the ground. And the only one who can pick them up and sort them is God himself. With each new human birth, He carefully and lovingly compiles a unique blend of pieces, and then waits for us to sit down at the table. When we show up, there’s a pile sitting in front of us, and a note that says,
“Here are the pieces of your life, my love. They’ve been divinely placed here. Just for you. You’ll notice that some are beautiful, and some are not. Some will fit together easily, and others will cause you problems. But I wouldn’t have given you these pieces without also giving you everything you need to make them work. Relax your shoulders, and take deep breaths. Be accepting of each piece that enters your hand, knowing that it is essential to the final product. I’ve got the blueprint, and let me tell you….the spender of it will blow you away.”
We lift our head up from the note and look around. There are tables everywhere, and people are toiling hard, in all different stages of construction. We look down at the table again, timidly grab two pieces, and slide them together.
Looks pretty good. Feels good too. Feels right.
So, we grab a few more pieces and begin to create a life, with a small smile stretching across our face.
Suddenly, a voice breaks in from the table next to us.
“Uhhhh…that’s not the way it’s supposed to look. You aren’t doing it right.” The voice says.
Startled, you drop your pieces, and turn to face your neighbor. “What do you mean?” you say, feeling a little embarrassed. “What is it supposed to look like?”
Your neighbor holds up a square picture of some plastic-looking flowers, and shrugs her shoulders, a little apologetically.
“They say it’s supposed to look like this.”
“Who says?” you ask.
“Some people at the tables a few miles down got together and came up with it. They made copies, and there’s a bunch of them floating around.”
You suppose that the flowers are pretty, in a plastic-y sort of way… so you just take the picture and abandon the blueprint.
Then, 40 years later, you walk into your child’s room and he tells you you’re an idiot. He tells you to trash the picture. You stand in his bedroom reevaluating your whole entire life, and suddenly you stop questioning why things haven’t always fallen in to place the way you thought they should.
It’s because the picture is wrong.
So anyway, here I am….wondering if anybody else needs reminded that the picture is wrong. I’m wondering if anybody else has found themselves sitting at the table feeling angry and frustrated over a pile of pieces that don’t seem to make sense with the picture.
We were never meant for plastic flowers. We were meant for mountains and sunsets and root beer floats and loss and pain and whatever else HE has given us in our pile that amounts to a finished product that will blow us away with its beauty and bravery.
I remembered today that our job is to trash the pictures that are constantly being placed on our desk, take the pieces from our pile one at a time, and add them to our life with a sense of acceptance, faith, and creativity.
All of life is the process of taking the next piece, and adding it to what we’ve already created. We never discard a piece simply because we don’t like the way it looks, or understand its purpose. We take them all. We add them all. Because we trust the blueprint. And we are making a masterpiece.
Take and add.
Take and add.
Until one day you hear Him calling your name. You’ll step out into the hallway before he can get to your door.
“I’m finished.” You’ll say, “Come see.”
He’ll step inside, stand over your life, and stare into it for a long minute, eyes studying each piece. “Yes.” He will say with a huge smile on His face. “You did it. It’s breathtaking.”
You’ll look with him at the final product and thank Him for everything. Even for the ugly pieces. You couldn’t see it in the making, but now you understand how every single piece worked together to create a life full of meaning, and growth, and strength, and beauty. It is nothing like the pictures. It is an original. Priceless.
He’ll take your life, and display it next to all of the other beautiful lives He’s designed.
You’ll stand up from your table, and wipe the dust away, making room for the next person to sit down. But before you leave, you’ll take a thick, black Sharpie and write the words “THE PICTURE IS WRONG. TRUST THE PIECES. TRUST THE BLUEPRINT” across the top of the desk.
In the meantime, let’s be like my kid. Let’s take and add wildly until He calls our name.
Like always, I love you.
Laurie