“. . .and Missy, your Autumn approacheth.”
It’s true, I no long qualify for MOPS. I haven’t had a preschooler in, well, awhile. My calendar no longer schedules play dates, but rather, testing dates for the SAT, and ACT. And when looking over an invitation that arrived in today’s mail, my first—well actually my PRIMARY concern, is how late will this event keep me out?
Whether I’ve taken note or not, time is marching on in my life, even though I’ve made every attempt to age only on alternate leap years. But I think it hit me hardest when I was approached by a lovely young woman in my church asking me to assist in a program. I assumed I was about to be asked to help in the nursery, to perhaps teach Sunday School. But no. . .instead, she asked me to become. . . wait for it. . .a Titus woman. The surest sign that you have aged is being asked to become a mentor to younger married women, which of course means that you are no longer one of them.
I don’t know if my face gave testimony to my shock, but inside I felt the sudden stirrings of rheumatism, and shocking need for more fiber.
Now I know it’s an honor to receive such a request but I have problems even with the name. Titus. Think of it. It rhymes with Phlebitis, Gastritis, Hemorrhaging Encephalitis—ALL good words to stay away from.
Nonetheless, since it’s an honor, perhaps I could manage it. I decided to go home and look up just what this job description entails.
Have the older women. . .<ah. . .that’s supposed to be me I think. . . joy> to be reverent in the way they live.
Okay, we may have a problem right off the bat. Now please understand, I take my faith, my worship and my God very, very seriously. But myself? Eh. . .not so much. And this easily translates into how I live. In fact, I work hard to bring MORE levity into my family’s world, rather than less. What’s worse, my humor is often described as IR-reverent. Perhaps I’m not qualified for this matronly honor after all.
She is not to be a slanderer. Okay, I think I’m good there. In fact, I sincerely hope that I’m more a Barnabus—you know, an encourager and keeper of the heart rather than a slanderer. Moving on.
She is not to be addicted to much wine. . .
That one’s easy. I don’t even like wine. But if addiction is the key word here, I must confess to a less-than-healthy relationship with my morning cup of coffee. My favorite mug reads “I drink coffee for YOUR protection.”
Moving on again.
. . .but she is to teach what is good.
Now you’ll notice it didn’t say she had to BE what is good. Because my daily failings would be a pretty quick disqualifier. But. . .if it’s about teaching, the truth is there are some things I’ve learned over the years.
For example, I know that sometimes a well-dusted house isn’t as valuable as making paper dolls with my daughter.
I know that becoming a mother added a dimension to my brain that wasn’t there before. All thoughts I have must be thought once for their impact on me, and then rethought once again for their impact on my children.
I know that we don’t have to constantly change friends if we understand that friends change.
I know that sometimes marriage is about feeling loving and committed to your spouse. But at other times, it’s about keeping a commitment to your God.
I know that money is a silly way to keep score. . .but, it sure keeps the kids in touch.
In the end, maybe I could pull this off. But somehow, I’m just not quite ready for this Titus-Woman thing. The honor of the request is not lost on me, but it seems such a serious responsibility. And perhaps, I’m really not right for such a task, even with the aging requirement easily fulfilled. God doesn’t call each of us to be the same thing. That’s why He said, while we’re all a part of the body, some of us will be an eye, others a foot, others an ear, still others a hand. Yet all are a part of His bride, which I think means I fall somewhere near the elbow—a silly looking part of the body, the purpose for which is not totally clear, but is nonetheless directly connected to the funny bone.