Getting My Hands Dirty

Growing up, the only thing I ever really dreamed about was being a wife and a mother. I loved teaching so, playing school and dress up came very natural for me. Most of the time, I pretended I was my mother, always wearing her dresses, heels, and jewelry around the house, or I would pretend to run errands in her car as if I was going somewhere under the carport. To me, she was perfect in all her imperfections. She made everything extra special. She always dressed so beautifully, and her hair and makeup seemed to always be done just right. She would make me feel like the number one kid in school when she would come to eat lunch with my friends and me. She never missed a field trip as a designated driver. She always made sure to bring special birthday treats to school, so I had something to share with my class, and of course, the icing on the cake was when she would take me out of school to go to the beauty shop. Oh, what fun! She always made it a big deal. She made sure the appointments were separate so, Brittney and I each got time with her all to ourselves. We would always get a bag of chips and a coke while we got our hair cut or in those days, permed! Looking back, I can see my mother was always right in the middle of whatever was going on. She was never afraid to get her hands dirty.

I used to catch myself picturing, what I thought, the perfect mom looked like: the perfect clothes, the perfect mom hair, the house in perfect order, the family involved in the perfect activities, and the kids dressed to perfection. I took one look in the mirror, and reality slapped me in the face. I also took a look around at our home. I noticed perfection had long ran out the door; order remained, but they do not make toddler toys to go with the color scheme of any home! I was further brought to reality when I looked down at Eva, and she was barefoot, covered in dirt, and holding a great, big juicy worm up for me to see. The bow in her hair had long been thrown somewhere in the house. I couldn’t help but laugh to myself. For me, putting up laundry, cooking supper, planting flowers, and making mud pies doesn’t exactly work with perfect nails, hair and expensive shoes.

On one episode of “The Waltons,” (which is another favorite show of mine) Olivia Walton, the mother, attends choir practice at Church. She has decided she needs to be more involved in things outside the home. At the end of Choir practice, all the ladies stay to have tea and socialize. Olivia quickly realizes she doesn’t fit in. One of the choir members slides over by her to visit. Olivia makes the comment that she needs to get going because her husband will need his supper. The lady leans in and whispers to her, “Don’t worry, the more you socialize with us, the more your husband will learn to make his own supper.” It took Olivia all of two seconds to get up and leave. When she got home, she told her husband she found more joy in caring for her family than standing around gossiping with those old ladies. I like to think the writer was trying to teach us as mothers to get our hands a little dirty within our own homes. Thomas Moore says it perfectly, “The ordinary arts we practice every day at home are of more importance to the soul than their simplicity might suggest.”

For me, I have never regretted my decision to get my hands dirty. I do not want to be an ornament draped in my home that simply observes life being lived. My mother never took me to the park and watched me swing. She was the one pushing me, higher and higher. Its funny, I find she still pushes me higher. She encourages me to always be the heart of my home; Enraptured in every mess, in every lesson and in every hug. There will always be a special grace that exists for the season we find ourselves in as mothers. Live it to the fullest. Get your hands dirty. You will be glad you did. 

“I don’t want to drive up to the pearly gates in a shiny sports car, wearing beautifully, tailored clothes, my hair expertly coiffed, and with long, perfectly manicured fingernails. I want to drive up in a station wagon that has mud on the wheels from taking kids to scout camp. I want to be there with a smudge of peanut butter on my shirt from making sandwiches for a sick neighbors’ children. I want to be there with a little dirt under my fingernails from helping to weed someone’s garden. I want to be there with children’s sticky kisses on my cheeks and the tears of a friend on my shoulder. I want the Lord to know I was really here and that I really lived.” – Marjorie Pay Hinckley

“Honor her for all that her hands have done, and let her works bring her praise at the city gate.” Proverbs 31:31

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