Christ in a Motorhome

(A recycled post from this time last year)


As our family travels up the great state of California motorhome style, involuntarily taking in the smell of cows, onions and whatever else it is that they farm in the central valley, we have grown. Grown grumpy, impatient and selfish that is. Cramming the six of us and a dog together for hours on end sure brings out the yuck.

As I write I have a six year old singing in my ear. Literally in my ear! And when she's not singing she's whining about how she doesn't like the movie and when she isn't whining she is making grunting noises or talking to herself. That's how she rolls. She wants to be heard. Always.

From the back comes the complaining of my four year old because he wants to unbuckle to get a toy just like his sister just did.

The dog is eating the dropped snacks off the floor and someone keeps yelling, "I can't see!" Oh and I can't forget my oldest child who is freaked out about the whole traveling in a motorhome thing. Anxious about every noise and bump and intolerant of us all.

But we're making memories y'all (no I'm not from the south, I've just always wanted to say that).

I look over at Justin who's been so quiet knowing that he is struggling with patience and holding his tongue, unlike me. I say something along the lines of, "NEVER AGAIN." He smiles knowing that I don't really mean It.

It's always on these trips that my attitude falls into a sink hole and I decide that our family needs to make some major changes. It's when I decide that we must be the biggest sack of complaining losers this side of the Mississippi. It's when I try to play the role of the Holy Spirit.

So as I feel the need to correct every comment, every intolerant sigh, every complaint over someone touching someone else I become exhausted. I forget to rest. I forget that I am not in control.


I forget about the outrageous grace that is given to this family of six.


It's in these moments when our hearts are being pushed, punched and twisted by the temptation to look only to ourselves that I am reminded of His grace. He never tells me that this is the last trip He'll take me on. He doesn't look at me in exhaustion saying, "Never Again". He doesn't throw his hands up and declare that He can't take it anymore.

No, He simply washes my feet over and over again.

And when I think of my beautiful Savior, a King worthy of all praise on His knees washing the filth from this impatient, irritated mom I can't help but want to do the same for the little girl who's feet keep migrating to the back of my head.


My desire to say "No" to my flesh and "Yes" to the Spirit increases, not by trying to be a better mom but by remembering His perfect love for this imperfect family.