A few weeks ago, I told another woman that I think we’ve lost something important.
Women used to raise children together.
They helped one another through childbirth, illness, grief, meals, celebrations, and the ordinary work of everyday life. Life wasn’t necessarily easier, but it was shared.
I’ve been thinking about that conversation ever since.
Because just a few days later, I found myself living it.
I had agreed to help a family for three days while they prepared for a vacation.
The first day didn’t go the way I’d hoped.
Their almost-seven-year-old challenged me throughout the day. He tested boundaries, spoke disrespectfully a few times, and struggled to wait while I helped his little brother. By the time I drove home, I was mentally exhausted.
I questioned myself.
Not because I thought he was a bad kid.
Because I hadn’t found him yet.
That evening, instead of replaying every difficult moment, I found myself asking a different question.
How can tomorrow be better for all of us?
The next morning, I listened to a sermon on my drive to work.
It was about love.
Not the sentimental kind.
The kind of love Paul describes in 1 Corinthians 13.
The kind that is patient.
Kind.
Humble.
Not easily angered.
The kind of love that chooses the good of another person before demanding its own way.
I didn’t know it then, but that sermon would quietly shape everything that followed.
When I arrived, I asked the boys what they’d eaten at a Mexican restaurant the night before.
“Rice.”
“Beans.”
“Chips and queso.”
Then they proudly informed me that they’d spent the evening farting.
Naturally.
I introduced them to a few ridiculous bean-and-fart songs I could remember from my childhood.
Within minutes, we were all laughing.
Looking back, it’s funny how often connection begins with something completely ordinary.
Or completely ridiculous.
Later that morning, I noticed several lemons sitting in the refrigerator.
The family would be leaving town soon, and I thought it might be fun to use them before they spoiled.
“What if we made lemonade?”
That simple idea somehow turned into a lemonade stand.
The lemonade stand became a poster.
The poster became a commercial.
The commercial became a song.
Later, for reasons I still can’t fully explain, we created a song called Fartnado.
It was ridiculous.
The boys thought it was brilliant.
And somewhere between lemons, laughter, and lyrics, something shifted.
The almost-seven-year-old who had challenged me so much the day before became completely engaged.
He directed our ideas.
He critiqued tiny design details.
He rewrote lyrics.
He created.
He laughed.
He belonged.
The problem hadn’t been that he had too much energy.
He simply needed somewhere meaningful for it to go.
Looking back, I don’t think the lemonade stand changed our day because I suddenly came up with a better activity.
I think it changed because I stopped asking, “How do I manage this child?”
…and started asking,
“How do I love him?”
That afternoon, something small happened that has stayed with me.
The almost-seven-year-old had spent most of the day leaning against me while we worked together. At one point, without really thinking, I kissed the top of his head.
He immediately looked at me and said,
“I don’t like that.”
There wasn’t anger in his voice.
Just honesty.
I apologized immediately and even jokingly wiped my kiss back off his head.
I’ve thought about that moment often since.
I had felt close enough to offer affection.
He didn’t yet feel close enough to receive it.
Both things were true.
And he trusted me enough to tell me.
Real love doesn’t assume access.
It listens.
I realized later that even this little interaction reflected the sermon I’d listened to that morning.
Love isn’t self-seeking.
Love doesn’t insist on its own way.
Love honors another person’s boundaries.
The following day, the boys left early with their dad to begin their vacation.
Originally, I hadn’t been asked to work.
But their mom had so much to do before flying out with the baby that I offered to come help for part of the day.
I’m so glad I did.
There was laundry to fold.
Dishes to put away.
Tiny clothes to pack.
A baby to care for.
Produce to get rid of.
A hundred little details that had to happen before one family could simply leave town.
As I moved from one task to the next, I realized something.
I wasn’t rescuing an overwhelmed mom.
I was simply becoming part of her village for a little while.
“Diaper’s changed. She’s ready to nurse.”
“Towels are folded.”
“Clothes are laid out.”
“I’ll be happy to take the produce home.”
That’s all.
Just one woman helping another carry life for a few hours.
Villages don’t exist because someone is failing.
They exist because no one was ever meant to carry everything alone.
Driving home that afternoon, another realization settled in.
While I had spent those three days looking after someone else’s family…
A whole group of people had quietly been looking after me.
My therapist.
My neighbor.
My aunt.
Friends who checked in.
My mom, who noticed I had started pulling at my eyelashes again—not to point it out or make me feel self-conscious, but simply to pray for me.
She sent me a sermon.
She texted encouragement.
She reminded me who I was before I ever walked through someone else’s front door.
None of them were watching the children.
They were watching me.
Not hovering.
Not fixing.
Not rescuing.
Just asking,
“How are you doing?”
“How did you sleep?”
“I’m praying for you.”
“You’ve got this.”
Those small acts of care mattered more than they probably realized.
Because when I walked back into that house on Wednesday, I wasn’t running on empty anymore.
I had been encouraged.
Strengthened.
Loved.
And because I had been loved…
I was able to lead with love.
I don’t think that’s a coincidence.
I think that’s how it works.
For a long time, I admired people who seemed able to pour themselves out endlessly for others.
I’m not sure I believe that’s the goal anymore.
I think the people who love well are usually the ones who have been loved well first.
Not perfectly.
Consistently.
Patiently.
Over time.
Like fruit growing slowly on a healthy tree.
The Fruit of the Spirit has never been about trying harder.
Fruit grows because it’s connected to something alive.
Maybe people do, too.
That little three-day chapter had everything.
Laughter.
Laundry.
Lemonade.
Songs.
One wonderfully opinionated almost-seven-year-old.
His delightfully giggly little brother.
A sweet baby.
An overwhelmed mom.
A village I could see.
And another one I almost missed because it was quietly holding me up.
Looking back, I don’t think the story is really about children.
Or lemonade.
Or even Fartnado.
I think it’s about something much simpler.
On my drive to work that Wednesday morning, I thought the sermon on 1 Corinthians 13 was preparing me to love two little boys and their baby sister.
Looking back, I think it was preparing me to receive love, too.
Because love rarely begins with us.
Someone prays for us.
Checks on us.
Encourages us.
Reminds us who we are.
Carries us when we’re tired.
And somehow, without even realizing it, that love continues flowing through us into someone else’s life.
Maybe that’s why Scripture describes love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control as fruit.
Fruit is never manufactured.
It’s cultivated.
Slowly.
Patiently.
Together.
We don’t become strong by learning to need no one.
We become strong when we’re loved well enough that we have love to give away.
We don’t grow alone.
Postscript
After writing this story, I reached out to the kids’ mom to ask whether she would be comfortable with me sharing our “Lemonade Squad” poster. She graciously said yes, as long as I didn’t use their names or real photos.
Then she told me something that made me smile.
The boys were planning a real lemonade stand that weekend at their grandmother’s house.
The just-turned-seven-year-old was thrilled.
Apparently, Lemonade Squad wasn’t just a one-day adventure.
Sometimes you don’t realize you’ve planted a seed until someone tells you it’s still growing.