Why I thought of a Monster.com commercial from the late 90’s during a devotion, I have no idea. The free associations in my mind are indeed mystifying and, at times, disturbing.
As I have reflected on the meaning of living a life of significance, I have concluded that for some it means a full-on, deliberate embrace of…insignificance. Not mediocrity, mind you, but being poured out like a drink offering as described by Paul in his second letter to the Philippians and pondered by Oswald Chambers who inquires in My Utmost for His Highest, “Are you ready to be less than a mere drop in the bucket- to be so totally insignificant that no one remembers you even if they think of those you served?”
If this does not repel you, then carefully consider a message I heard in church last year: “Greatness is not privilege and position over others, but sacrifice and serving for others.”
Wow.
Is this contrary to the world’s definition of greatness and what we should be OR WHAT? I know what I want to be – a vessel, a poured out offering, a blessing – and most days I don’t even come close. I have determined that long after I’m gone, I don’t wish to be on people’s minds as much as I wish to be in their hearts.
This will not be due to my accomplishments, save for the 4 of whom I am most proud, or resulting significance. Looking back on the last 20 years, there may not be anything more “insignificant” than motherhood actually. No accolades, little recognition and much of what you do is when no one is watching. Plus, no formal training and no dang owner’s manual either!
One of numerous examples (when I would have liked having an owner’s manual, that is) is when my son appeared at my door one evening after basketball practice during his senior year, his arms draped over the shoulders of two friends. I knew something was up.
When I suspect a broken bone, I’ve learned to administer a megadose of Vitamin I (ibuprofen); apply ice (whether or not I remember to put it in a plastic bag is another story); and offer my child a blanket in case he/she goes into shock.
My being the one who generally goes into shock in these instances, however, resolutely confirms my non medical career choice. All I could think of in my calm (eh-hem) state is that you have only 8 hours to get a cast. This is not true. The 8 hour “rule” is for stitches. You can wait 10 days for a cast- just ask my middle daughter. Oops.
WeIl, I trusted my generally reliable maternal instinct and armed with the knowledge that Prompt Care was closed, off I sped to the ER, aka Extraordinary Rates, uh, Waits. Whatever. When the doctor gazes at your child and exclaims, “Whoa!,” you know it can’t be good yet the x-ray ultimately revealed no fracture. By the way, the new Martha Jefferson ER is remarkably efficient as well as cushy, and we were home not long after midnight.
On route my son plugged in his iPhone as per usual. He is quite considerate in selecting the music while we’re driving. He likes to time travel to the Dark Ages when I was a teenager. That night he offered up Queen and CCR which didn’t do it for me because frankly, those bands never did it for me. Then… through the premium speakers of my hot ride, a severely dented Toyota mini-van, I heard the rhythmic sounds of Cinnamon Girl and Gimme Shelter…now we’re talkin’.
My son, a young man of few words, proceeded to ask me about my job and other things. Then he humbly volunteered, “Thanks, Mom, for taking me.”
It is in these moments – when an 18-year-old man-boy fills up your car with gas while hobbling in an air cast; plays songs from your era; asks about your life; expresses appreciation to you for something any mother would do -it is in these “insignificant” moments that you realize you truly are just a drop in the bucket, one which – by the grace of God – might even engender marvelous ripple effects.
Trust.
– Caroline Watkins