I despise Play-Doh.

At some point when I wasn’t paying attention, Play-Doh enlisted The Joker and James Bond to train my children how to play with it. They all worked together, compiling their maniacal-evil-genius and their handsome-devil-spy-intelligence, along with my household schematics — and systematically developed the best laid plans to completely TAKE OVER my home.

Even under my plastic-matted watch, Play-Doh still manages to sneak its way into every crevice in my kitchen floor and onto my favorite furniture in OTHER ROOMS. Later, when I’m getting ready for bed, I’ll find a big dried clump of the stuff behind my ear. 

A few weeks ago, my hands were rebelling against me and I couldn’t open the little tubs of Doh.


All of the sudden Play-Doh became all the things.

It became my dreams for the future.

Play-Doh became my writing and speaking career. It became my ability to be the mom who plays for hours with joy and creativity. Play-Doh became my ability to be an attractive wife and a loving friend. Play-Doh became me walking my sons down the aisle at their weddings. (I know, I know. This doesn’t usually happen. But at an early age, I began brainwashing my sons to believe that mom is the one who will release them to their future spouse.)

What if I can never play Play-Doh again?!!! I adore Play-Doh!

My three year-old eyeballed the tears rolling down my cheeks with suspicion and impatience. Mom, are you happy? Are you going to be happy now? Are you done with tears now? Can we play Play-Doh now?

No I am not happy right now. It’s okay for mommy to cry sometimes. It’s okay to be sad when we hurt because I NEED TO WALK YOU DOWN THE AISLE ONE DAY!!

I texted my husband: “I can’t open the Play-Doh. Am having a meltdowny moment. Help. 

Kev came home to open the Play-Doh and to sit with me and to remind me that I hate Playdoh so I should take advantage of this very valid excuse to watch The Aristocats for the 10,000,000th time. And to tell me, tenderly, that I will play Play-Doh again soon. Flare-ups end. Also to say that our sons might need a lot of future Oedipal Therapy if I keep up all this walking them down the aisle talk.

God himself makes this audacious claim in Isaiah 49; we are, you and I, engraved on His hands.

Not penciled. Not painted. Not permanent-markered. Not playdohed.

We are engraved: carved permanently with scars that won’t fade, on the hands of God.

His hands have your name on them, and mine.

When my hands are brittle, help me cling to yours, to the place where my name abides.

This week, if you aren’t quite done with your tears, if you’re a little sad over all the unopened things, if you feel like you can’t overcome – may you hold onto your Overcomer.



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