Hamilton

This past weekend I got to see Hamilton. 

Yes, I could insert a whole bunch of ‘finally’s and exclamation marks and talk about how amazing it was and how Lin-Manuel Miranda is a genius and how it deserves all of its fame.  Which I do, it is, he is, and it does, but that’s not, unfortunately, the only thing that comes to mind when I think of this experience. Self-doubt and guilt hitched a ride on this road trip and showed their ugly faces without any warning. 

My parents bought me the tickets.  They are amazing, generous people who, not only want us (the four kids and now four kids-in-law) to be the best we can be in Jesus, but also want us to experience life.  They’ve been taking us on (and funding) adventures for as long as I can remember.  No matter how little something cost or how much, or if it would be a hassle or could happen in our own backyard, they wanted us to LIVE.  I could keep writing about what it was like growing up looking at life like an adventure (and I will, some other time) but this is about what happened after one of them.  After one of those experiences that they gave me because they knew my life would forever be richer for it. 

Mom and Dad had been listening to me and one of my brothers talk about Hamilton for a couple of years now.  We’d made them listen to pieces of the soundtrack and talked about the impact it was having.  And when it went on tour, we talked about how incredible it would be to see but neither of us could afford tickets.  I kept saying I was going to try to snag a single seat, no matter where it was in the house, it just depended on whether anything “extra” had happened that month money-wise.  (You know extra, right?  That’s a surprise broken car or broken water heater or broken arm.) 

BUT they stunned us by saying that if they got tickets for us to see the show, would we be willing to get to Tulsa to claim them.  That took zero thinking and I think I yelled ‘yes’ into my dad’s ear over the phone. 

The weekend arrived.  I drove.  I saw.  I was inspired.  And my love of the show was justified.

Immediately afterward I met my parents and my kids for dinner and we talked about the show and just how over the moon I was.  I was chattering away…

And then it happened.  Without warning. I tripped into an old trap. I apologized for them getting me the tickets.  I don’t even remember the exact wording that I used because they popped out of my mouth so fast.  But I apologized.  I acted like they shouldn’t have spent the money on me.  

Because it was some money.  I knew how much those tickets were going for.  As soon as I sat down in the theater I wanted to call them and just shout “thank you” till the curtain rose.  This wasn’t an unknown gift.  And then when I was trying to tell them just how much I loved it and how great I thought it was and trying to thank them for their incredible gift, I freaking apologized. 

My dad immediately said, “Why are you sorry?!” and I had to say “No, I’m not sorry for the tickets.  I don’t know why I said that.” 

That hung over me and is still in my thoughts.  The same old doubt of worth, same old darkness, jumped in and tried to ruin a gift. A gift that was a realization of something I had been wanting to do for YEARS. I was so overwhelmed by their generosity that I felt like I needed to recognize that that money was ‘wasted’ on me.  I had to make sure I let them know just how unworthy I was of that gift. 

Talk about a waste!  It came in from nowhere!  That stupid, stupid, old thought that I wasn’t worthy of that kind of extravagance, that kind of gift, that kind of love and attention.  That there might be hint of regret from them because that cost wasn’t anything I could pay back. 

LIES.

I learned a lot about faith when I became a mom.  A LOT.  About faith and God and love and sacrifice and sin and grace.  I had been the recipient of that kind of love my whole life but I didn’t grasp it until I was the pitcher instead of the glass, until I was the giver of that kind of love. 

My kids showed up and my love for them didn’t strike like lightning, it just WAS.  It didn’t develop, I didn’t fall, it didn’t sneak up on me, it just WAS.  These were my kids.  MY kids. I would paint faces, steal sunshine on cloudy days, bake cookies till I hated chocolate, and BE THERE because they were MINE.  

“Which of you, if your son asks for bread, will give him a stone?  Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake?”  YEP.  I understood this verse all of my life, but once those boys of mine showed up, I GOT it.

I give my boys adventures.  Small ones, big ones, cheap ones, expensive ones.  I (and my husband) give our boys experiences that they will remember and will enrich their lives.  That they will always be able to say “I’ve done that!” with joy and laughter.  That they’ll be able to tell stories of adventure mishaps and the lessons they learned from them.  Of the places that they’ve visited or things they’ve done that introduced them to this or that passion.  I want that for them.  And it’s part of my job.  It’s my job to not only raise them to be kind, good men who love Jesus but to also introduce them to the world and show them how to walk in it. No, not just walk. Skip, run, and dance in it too.  

And it would break my heart if one of them thought they weren’t worthy of one of those experiences and apologized to me for wasting that money on them…

If that took root in their souls and churned till it twisted into one of them doubting God’s love because there’s no way He would ‘waste’ it on them…

I know who my parents are.  I know their desires for me.  I know they know my passions and interests and just how much of a gold star it would be on my life to get to see that musical.  And the whole thing was almost ruined because I questioned, even for a second, if I was worth it.  Or that they might regret granting that wish. 

A disservice is done every time you try to shrink away from the attention or gift of a loved one.  It can make them feel like maybe you don’t want it.  Or that the gift has no meaning.  Or that maybe you aren’t deserving of it if this is how you’re going to act, if you’re going to dismiss it so quickly in exchange for martyrdom.  I think a person has to learn not only how to give freely but also how to receive.  I’ve heard so many times about ‘gracefully’ receiving a gift but I think that‘s been shuffled into subservient refusal of it. Or viewing it like a debt that has to be repaid.

“I don’t know how I can ever thank you enough.” 

IT’S NOT ABOUT REPAYMENT.

“No, no, I couldn’t possibly.” 

YES.  YOU CAN.  Just like, yes, I can. 

Receiving gracefully should actually be described as receiving with joy, and with trust.  Trust that you know their heart and their love for you.  That you can hold on to it and claim it. And accept it.  

I’m pleased to say that I caught myself.  Well, my dad caught me first and then I switched tracks but I did switch.  I stopped that other line of thinking and hopped on board the pure gratitude express that doesn’t make any stops in guilt town and regretful gulch. 

And next time, well, maybe I won’t even set foot on that wrong train.  I’ll keep working at it.  And praying after it.  And trusting the love and worth that my parents have poured over me, are still pouring over me.  Just like our Father up above.