There is one thing I remember from the birth of my children; my firstborn especially. I remember the way that little hospital room became this warmly lit, peaceful, little bubble. The moments where it was just me, the baby, and her dad, felt the most safe and golden I have ever felt.

We looked at her until our eyes started crossing and the lids felt heavy. We held her and marveled at her perfection. We kissed her and let her wrap her whole hand around our one finger. We sang to her and prayed with her and spoke softly about how beautiful she was. How we promised to be the kind of parents who taught her about Jesus and cherished her soul every day of her life.

Currently, as I write this, my one-year-old is “ballerina dancing” on the coffee table to the classical music playing in the room. Her hands are above her head, and she’s making clumsy, wobbly spins with a big, goofy grin. The living room is a mess, a pot of chili is cooling on the kitchen counter from dinner waiting for someone to put it away, and this mama is ready for bedtime.

Nothing is wrong. The kids aren’t misbehaving– except that I’d like the toddler to dance on the floor, not the coffee table– and there is no pressing things that have to be completed in the next hour, but I feel overwhelmed. And a part of me wonders: I wonder if Mary felt this way?

I remember being a kid, sitting in the church pew, and hearing this commandment. I remember looking over at my mom who was giving me a look that said, “Did you hear that?” I probably rolled my eyes because I thought God was backing her up on the whole 8 p.m. bedtime and doing my chores thing. Back then, that’s what honoring my parents meant: obeying them and following the rules. And sure, maybe that’s part of honoring– listening, heeding, and abiding. But it goes deeper than the age-old “because I said so” mentality that we’ve attached to that idea.