Genetically Guilty

There are few mothers who don’t deal with guilt on some level or another. I have thought for awhile that moms are some of the most guilt ridden people on the planet. The children we are blessed with become mirror images of the things we do and don’t like about ourselves. Extended family loves to sit around at family events and point out who has what grievance or attribute. “She’s just like her Mother,” or “I’ve seen that before.” I’ve been wrestling for years with a raw place that has been a plague since childhood. Is it in my genetics? Is it just a series of personality traits and circumstance? I still don’t know. What I do know is that I am going to pray, not fear, not prevent, and not control the guilty trait from being passed on to my genetically ridden children. What if I could bless them, not curse them? What would that look like? What my flesh wants is to have the power to choose, but the spirit in me knows the blessing happens when I let go and let them breathe.

I took my two image bearers to the dentist this past week. We were hopeful for healthy clean teeth, but were worried about the verdict at the end of this trip. A beautiful woman was waiting in the ‘holding’ room while her young son let the ‘happy’ juice take affect. I’ve been through this recently as my radiant active child turned into a monster before my eyes. At one point he turned to me, leaned in real close and said, “I don’t like you, Mommy.” It was exhausting as his head seemed too heavy for him to carry on his shoulders and I had to keep him upright. Needless to say, her little one was having a hard time. The uniformed people came for him and she sat down next to me. I asked her if this was his first time to get the happy juice. She teared up and said no, he has been here often recently. The woman crumbled. “You see, he has gastric reflux and the acid that should remain in the deep caverns of his stomach rise and destroyed his back teeth. So, one by one the teeth were being extracted.” She went on to explain she had suffered with this disorder for so long as a young person, but not until she was twenty was it discovered and the healing medicine of Prevacid given to her. I felt the weight of her guilt as it was her fault he had this disorder. She spoke of her genetics, her erroneously made DNA, and I recognized despair. We discussed the happy side of his being able to receive the medicine now, and that the many surgeries and tissue repair would hopefully not await him. This didn’t seem to lift her. What do I say? I’ve felt this. Is it the code or is it just a bi-product of life on earth? This woman told me her husband had told her that God had made their boy. The words sat there between us, and I said it sounded like a truth she could believe. The unsaid was whether or not she is or is not going to trust the God that made the boy, which made the Mom, who knows the end, and will finish the story for each and every one of us. The door opened and a weepy little boy reached for her and she wrapped her arms around him. The gauze in his mouth gave him a crooked little smile, but he was at peace with her.

The door swung open again and my Crest sparkling little ones were peering out at me. Then the verdict, “We don’t have cavities!!!!” “Look how clean our teeth are.” “Mom, can we get a treasure out of the box? “ I love dentist treasure boxes as the sugar has been removed from the spelling of T-r-e-a-t. We made it to the waiting room where this Mom was struggling to hold the very asleep little one and pay her bill. I offered to help, but she was shouldering her genetic material, her guilt, her purse, and her pride all at once and well, she didn’t need any help. I sighed and said a prayer for the woman and the child.

And would you know not even one minute later, we are getting into the car and my kids are repeating the words of the dentist, about the space between their teeth, the room in their mouth, and about their ‘good’ teeth. Without thinking I said, “You have my side of the family to thank for that.” The words just hung there in my throat. You dumb, dumb, woman, what are you saying! Our parents have no control over what we do or do not get, this is not where the gratitude lays. But we thank the Lord for the good and the bad, right? Right? Say it Beth, say it… I hung my head at the heaviness I felt over my own reckless behavior. I have to undo this. Lord, help…

Our lunch was greeted with smiles and busy talk of the video games at the dentist’s office and the taste of the cleaning products. We bowed our heads to thank God for the verdict of healthy teeth, a place to have our teeth cleaned, and for making us just how we are. It didn’t seem like enough at the end of the prayer. I should have gone on about how He is the potter and we are the clay and we should not question why He made us so. I still felt guilty as I’m pretty good at recognizing it by now. While the veggie sticks crunched, and the plans for play were created, I managed a second prayer. “Forgive me Jesus, help me not feel guilt and help me to recognize quickly from whom all things come.”